


Atonement

by Starless



Category: Papillon (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protectiveness, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slow Build, Slow Burn, longfic in progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2019-10-16 04:42:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 155,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17542877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starless/pseuds/Starless
Summary: Julot is successful in his flight, and with no execution and no corpse to carry through the jungle Papillon and Dega are left to play out Papi's escape plan. Bonded by the daily struggle for survival in French Guiana, they come to an inevitable conclusion--they must escape together.





	1. Un

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally could not tell you how many times I've watched this film over the past three weeks. It's pretty rare that I feel the desire to write, but I absolutely adore these characters and it turns out I wasn't able to resist putting something together.
> 
> So yeah! I'm painfully curious about all of the 'what if?' scenarios that haunt me each time I watch this movie. This particular story explores what may have happened if Julot hadn't been caught and executed, because I believe that this event was the biggest turning point of the film. With Julot free, Papi and Dega would have continued plotting and preparing for Papi's escape, and any number of terrible or wonderful things may have happened.
> 
> As a disclaimer, I haven't read the autobiographical novel or seen the 1973 film--I'm basing all of this on the remake.

French Guiana is a lot of things.

Henri would not rate ‘comfortable’ at the top of the list, but he thinks that it’s an especially unpleasant night. The air is still and muggy, and he winces as thunder rumbles ominously in the distance. He’s glad that he had been able to tuck Dega into the corner that first day, but that puts Henri himself right beneath a window. He’s woken up damp after a rainstorm on more than one occasion already and he dreads the looming storm.

He closes his eyes and tries to fall asleep before it hits--he thinks maybe he can sleep through the drizzle this time. But despite another long day of hard labor it’s difficult to drift off. There’s too much to think about. Protecting Dega takes up a significant portion of his waking hours, so he uses the long, empty nights to plan his escape.

The wind picks up and Henri lets his thoughts wander while Dega fidgets beside him in the dark. It’s a telling sign that something’s on his mind, but despite his curiosity Henri’s learned to wait the other man out. Dega rarely speaks on anything serious before he’s ready--Henri wouldn’t have guessed it early on, but Dega can be a stubborn son of a bitch.

Dega rustles around behind him. He sighs. He rustles again, shifting restlessly. Henri nearly gives in to his frustration and demands that Dega either blurt out what’s bothering him or go the fuck to sleep, but he listens to the first pit-pat of rain against the wall and reminds himself to be patient.

Henri doesn’t have to wait long. 

Tentative fingers press into his shoulder, softly enough that he would not have felt them if he hadn’t already been awake. 

“What?” he murmurs, rolling onto his back.

“What do you know about that man with the rash?”

Of all the things Henri had expected Dega to be dwelling on, a random inmate was not one of them. "Who?"

Dega glances around the barracks. He inclines his face closer to Henri’s ear and keeps his voice low. "The man who was with you and your friend Julot back on the ship. He followed you in here, too."

Henri draws a blank and he settles for frowning at Dega. Dega's voice pitches even lower, and it's a familiar, pleasant rumble in Henri's ear. "That first day. He followed us in here. He's sleeping across from us now."

Henri lifts his head but can't make out anything from the row of dirty, bare feet that protrude from the concrete slab. "Okay."

"You don't remember him," Dega deadpans, and Henri's mouth twitches in an almost-smile. He thinks in another life he would have had a genuine appreciation of Dega's dry sense of humor.

"Sure I do," Henri says, just to tease him. Dega sighs and the puff of air warms the side of Henri's face. He can practically feel Dega hesitate, and when he speaks next it's with something like pity.

"His mouth--he has redness around his mouth. Like a rash. Or small sores."

"Which is it?"

"I don't know," Dega retorts with irritation, "I haven't looked that closely."

Henri considers that, and when he thinks back a face _does_ come to mind--pale cheeks, black eyes, a head topped with a dark shock of hair. He remembers the rash too, and a low, thick brow.

"I think I do know who you mean."

Henri watches as Dega turns to stare across the way. "I think I already know the answer to this question, but--"

"I don't know him," Henri confirms. "I guess he was a friend of Julot's, too."

"You've never spoken to him?"

Henri exhales slowly and tries to draw from the deep well of patience he has set aside for Dega. "I could have at some point, but probably not about anything important. Why?"

When Dega says nothing Henri feels his curiosity get the better of him. He turns his head fully and stares at Dega in the dark. He finds that the other man has laid back down, apparently content to drop the conversation. Henri’s not, though. "He bothering you?"

"Bothering me? No."

"Then--"

"I was curious," Dega says without conviction.

"If there's something I should know, you should say it."

Dega's quiet for so long that Henri wonders if he's fallen asleep. "I hadn't seen him around for a while. After Julot left."

Henri's amused by the euphemism. "Escaped, you mean."

"It's the same thing," Dega says dismissively. "After he escaped, I hadn't seen this friend of his around, but I guess I hadn't noticed he was gone until he showed up again."

Henri's puzzled. Not necessarily by the other man's behavior, but certainly by Dega's interest. He's getting too tired to try to figure it out on his own, though. "Okay. And?"

"And--nothing. I was only curious."

"You sure he isn't bothering you? Because you seem bothered."

"You should keep your voice down," Dega advises, speaking slowly now, like he's being dragged down into sleep. "He might hear you."

Henri frowns at Dega's glasses, at the big eyes pressed closed behind the lenses. He considers teasing Dega again, then thinks better of it. "If he is," Henri says, quietly as he can manage, "you should tell me."

Dega hums tiredly.

"Dega.”

"Hm?"

"Is he bothering you?"

Dega's eyes draw open again and his mouth presses into a line. "Julot told you about me. That's what you said."

Henri's thrown for a moment by the curve in conversation. "Yeah."

"I'm just wondering if he told this other... friend as well."

Henri says nothing. He watches Dega until Dega's eyes flutter shut again, and then Henri turns to stare at the ceiling. He knows the moment Dega falls asleep, can feel it in the way the other man relaxes at the small point of contact between them, by the way the soft rhythm of his breathing slows.

 _The money,_ Henri thinks. _He’s worried about the money._

He lies awake and wonders about the implication of that, hardly noticing the fine drizzle that floats in overhead.

✧ ✧ ✧

Henri asks around and it doesn't take long to find out what little there is to know about the man.

"Celier says his name's Harry Guittou," he tells Dega as they shower after another long day on the Route. He scrubs at the back of his neck and watches as Dega's long lashes drip water, his eyes impossibly large even without his glasses.

"Ah," Dega says. He doesn't ask who Henri means, and Henri's not surprised but he was hoping for more of a reaction, given Dega's apparent concern over the man. "What did he do? To get in here, I mean."

"I know what you meant." Henri drags his hands through his hair, trying to scrape out the grime of the day. He smiles indulgently at Dega's long-suffering sigh, knowing that Dega likely can't see it without his glasses, even at this range. "One version says he robbed his neighbor, wound up hurting him real bad when he got caught red-handed."

"And the other version?" Dega asks, slicking his own hair back with water.

"The way Celier tells it is that Guittou hurt someone real bad and _then_ robbed him."

Dega snorts, shaking his head and turning away to finish showering.

"It makes a difference," Henri complains.

"Does it?"

Dega doesn't sound particularly interested, but Henri decides it's important enough to press the issue. He reaches out and takes Dega by the bicep, and he tries not to feel pleased that Dega doesn't tense up at the unexpected contact anymore. _He trusts me,_ Henri thinks.

"It matters because it tells you a lot about what kind of man he is." Henri lets his hand drop. "If he took the time to rob a man after nearly killing him, that's--"

"Different than hurting a man to cover up his crime, in a moment of panic," Dega concludes, sounding mock-resigned. "Point taken."

Henri nods even though Dega's not looking.

"Which do you think it is?" Dega asks after they've dried and redressed.

"Can't really say either way." Henri doesn't like admitting that he doesn't have enough information, but he doesn't want to lead Dega into panic or complacency, so he doesn’t waste time with speculation.

"Should we be worried?" Dega asks as they climb the steps up toward their usual spot near the walkway, where Henri often smokes and Dega always draws until they’re forced into the barracks for the night.

"Don't know yet. Just keep your eyes open."

✧ ✧ ✧

_Dega's right to wonder, and he may be right to worry,_ Henri thinks as they settle into their respective places on the concrete platform that night. He watches Guittou watch Dega. He studies the other man's sullen face and he wonders why he hadn't noticed Guittou's intense scrutiny before.

He considers that it's likely because Guittou isn't a threatening man. He isn't especially tall, or especially strong--he isn't loud or obnoxious and he doesn't cower or whine.

He just exists.

He's a shadow on the wall, a thing that leaves next to no impression. He's also not very observant, if he hasn't noticed Henri openly staring right back. _That or he doesn't care,_ he thinks. Guittou abruptly scratches at his arm and the movement is so frenzied that Henri’s surprised he doesn’t draw blood. Guittou scratches at his mouth next, and then he pries his eyes from Dega and lies back against his bedding.

Henri wonders what the hell he wants--wonders if it even matters.

Dega's money isn't exactly a secret. Henri doesn't even have much more information than other inmates, except for confirmation without a doubt that it exists, that Dega still has it tucked safely inside of himself. Henri's only real advantage is that he'd gotten there first--he'd cemented a pact with Dega before someone else had gutted him or claimed him under their own protection.

So what the hell did it matter if Guittou knew?

Henri lies back and crosses his arms over his chest, ignoring the sound of Dega scribbling away with the precious few minutes he has left of lamplight.

By the time the turnkey finishes locking their ankles in for the night, Henri's convinced that they're overthinking it. He shifts and tries not to smile when the lights click out and Dega grunts. It’s all becoming comfortably routine. He lies still as Dega tucks his notepad away--there's no moon to draw by tonight, so he'll just have to try to sleep.

Predictably, Dega shifts onto his side after a few moments, facing Henri. The side of his arm is pressed feather-light against Henri's but he doesn't say anything about it. Dega does this almost every night, and Henri's not sure if it's for warmth or comfort or something else entirely, but he doesn't mind.

Henri himself, however, is a bit more limited in his options. He can lie on his back or he can lie facing away from Dega but there's no way he's going to sleep with his back to the rest of the room. He logically knows that the other convicts are securely locked away in their own ankle cuffs, but still he can't bring himself to rest on his left side.

So, as usual, he turns onto his right side and closes his eyes. If he shifts a bit until Dega's arm is touching his back--well, neither of them comment on that. It's part of the routine, too.

Henri falls asleep to the whisper of Dega's breath across the back of his neck.

✧ ✧ ✧

It happens on the Route.

Henri's let his guard down--he's been chatting with Celier and picking at his lump of bread, he hadn't noticed when Dega disappeared from his side.

He lurches to his feet and swings his head around, chest seizing up. He nearly calls out Dega's name but his throat squeezes shut as if to silence him. He hears Celier get to his feet somewhere behind him, and when Henri turns back to the sailor he can see that the other man has caught on to what’s happened.

"Looks like your boyfriend's in trouble," Celier comments calmly, and that tugs at something in his mind. It infuriates Henri for reasons he can't pin down. He shoves past Celier and begins pacing along the track, eyes flickering from face to face as he weaves through the small crowd of inmates.

Dega is nowhere to be found.

The sun is in his eyes and sweat has his shirt clinging to him. It's too hot--too bright. He thinks he catches a flash and turns toward it, struck by the impression that it's Dega's glasses reflecting the evening light.

But there's only the chaos of construction.

Guittou. He knows, he knows without a shadow of a doubt that Guittou struck when Henri wasn't looking, when he'd turned his back on Dega to answer Celier's questions about his time in the navy.

He abruptly pictures Dega in his mind, cut open and blooming scarlet in the mud, lost to a quick knife in the bush.

"Fuck," he croaks out, pulling at his hair. "Goddamn it!"

Hands grab at him from behind and he draws his arm forward just far enough to slam his elbow back with a vengeance.

A low, wounded cry wakes him.

"Papi--fuck!" Dega's voice is garbled as he clutches at his face. "Wake up!"

"I'm awake," Henri tells him, disoriented. He sits up as best he can, blinking at the cloying darkness of the barracks. He breathes hard for a moment, and then the realization that he’d struck Dega washes over him. He glances over and reaches out, grabbing Dega's wrists to pull his hands away from his face. He squints but it's too dim to see what damage his elbow has done.

"Shit. Is it broken? Your nose?"

"No," Dega says after a moment, reaching back up to rub ruefully at his mouth. "But I think you split my lip."

Henri feels guilty about that but it's lost in the relief of being awake because _Dega's alive_. Henri sags back down against his blanket, and only then does he notice the slight shuffle of noise around him. He realizes that they've woken some of the other men up, and he raises his head back up just enough to observe their silhouettes settling back down.

Dega wheezes out another soft curse.

"Sorry," Henri says. "You okay?"

"I'll survive. It’s not my first split lip," Dega says dryly. "I shouldn't have tried to wake you, but you were thrashing, Papi. And talking in your sleep."

Henri's brain helpfully replays the worst of the dreamscape imagery in his mind. He blinks it way and tries not to wonder if he’d called Dega’s name out loud. "Bad dream."

Dega lies down beside him again, tucked in even closer, and some part of Henri is relieved that he hasn't moved away to a safer distance. It’s a nice feeling, knowing that the forger isn’t afraid of him, and it’s easy enough to slip back into his restless dreams with Dega warm at his side.

✧ ✧ ✧

It’s rare that Louis and Papi are not together. 

Louis had never imagined he’d be so dependent on another human being, much less a man who had been a stranger not that long ago, but he finds himself dreading their few moments apart with an unsettling intensity.

It is, of course, in one of those such moments that Guittou finds him. 

Papi’s huddled around the corner, having a hushed conversation with Celier about a boat in one of the smaller alleys between the barrack buildings. Louis wasn’t invited to the discussion but he doesn’t resent Papi for that--they both know that Celier dislikes him with a peculiar ferocity. It’s easier on everyone if Papi and Celier have a few minutes here and there to plan by themselves. 

Louis watches Guittou approach and wonders if the other man had been watching, waiting for Papi to step away. Louis braces himself but Guittou’s hands are open and empty at his sides, and Louis doesn’t see the tell-tale lump of a weapon in his clothing. 

That doesn’t mean that there isn’t one, but--

“Dega,” Guittou greets, and Louis tries not to be thrown by the warm familiarity with which his name is said. But he _is_ thrown, and he blames that for the reason he accepts Guittou’s outstretched hand and allows a firm shake, like they’re old friends meeting over drinks. 

“Guittou,” Louis greets back after a quick beat of silence, his manners getting the better of him. It’s so rare that anyone besides Papi even speaks to him, he finds himself nearly out of practice. “Can I help you with something?”

Guittou stares blankly. It’s his default expression--eyes dull, brow low, mouth slightly parted. Louis’s starting to wonder if the man has a mental impairment when he seems to gather his wits, or perhaps his courage, and speaks. “I think it’s the other way around.”

“Excuse me?”

“I think I can help _you,_ Dega.”

It’s a bold statement from a man like Guittou. Louis feels his stomach roll with apprehension and he reminds himself that Papi’s one shout away. “Oh?”

Guittou nods. “I know about your deal with Papillon--it’s no good.”

An even bolder statement. Louis is at once offended and intrigued. “What do you mean?” He knows Papi, trusts him implicitly, but he’s curious about what Guittou has to say.

Guittou’s eyes flit around, like he’s looking for the man in question. 

“He’s leaving right? Using your money for an escape? That’s why you let him hang around.”

“Let him--?” Louis starts, then closes his mouth to keep from laughing in disbelief. He doesn’t _let_ Papi ‘hang around’, he pays him explicitly for that purpose. 

“That’s not a good idea,” Guittou says with something like sympathy. He takes a step closer and Louis resists the urge to take a reactionary step backward. He notes that Guittou’s rash is even more pronounced up close and he hopes it isn’t anything contagious. “What are you going to do when he’s gone?”

“Ah.” It’s a sensitive subject. Louis has already confessed his concerns to Papi, already asked to modify their deal, but Papi had shut him down.

“It doesn’t make any sense, when you think about it.”

Louis frowns but thinks better of arguing the point. He silently wishes Papi would hurry the fuck up with Celier and come back.

“Don’t you think so?”

Louis clears his throat. “It’s been working out well enough so far.”

Guittou’s dark eyes are skeptical. “You know why Papillon came to you? Why he knew to offer that deal in the first place?”

“Yes. Julot told him about me.”

Guittou nods and scratches at the raw skin around his mouth. “Julot and Papillon--they’ve been close since the beginning. Julot told me that they had a good connection in the holding cells.”

“I’m not sure what it is that you’re trying to say.”

Guittou frowns like it’s obvious. “Julot told Papillon about you in order to help _Papillon_.”

“And not to help me,” Louis concludes. Guittou nods. “Regardless--”

“There are other men here,” Guittou informs him in a low voice, angling in closer for privacy. “Ones planning on sticking around.”

Louis is stunned by the implication of the proposition. He smiles nervously and shakes his head. “That’s not--”

“You’re dead the minute Papillon escapes.”

That wipes the smile from his face. He’s suddenly intimidated by Guittou’s directness, though he tries not to show that he recognizes the truth in what the other man is saying. 

“You’re okay with that, Dega?”

Louis opens his mouth, certain the right answer will come, but then Papi’s breezing confidently around the corner. He stops and coils tight with alarm at the sight of Guittou pressed into Louis’ space. Papillon’s over in a heartbeat, and he secures the collar of Guittou’s shirt in a firm grip. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Papi asks.

Guittou jerks free, hands fluttering over his shirt to smooth down the distressed fabric.

“We were just talking,” he says, and Louis can’t argue with that. He can, however, frown and shrug his shoulders when Papi turns to silently consult him.

“Yeah? About what?” Papi counters, turning back. 

To his credit, Guittou maintains his cool even under Papi’s intense scrutiny. “Nothing important, Papi, don’t worry.”

“Why would I worry?”

Guittou looks at Louis for guidance, and then raises his hands in a placating gesture when Papi immediately steps between them. 

“Nevermind,” Guittou mutters, retreating one step at a time until he’s well out of the considerable range of Papi’s fast hands.

Louis watches in dull amusement as Papi plants his feet and adopts a now-familiar protective posture. He doesn’t even turn around once Guittou has turned his back and quickly scurried away, he just angles his head a bit and keeps his voice low to ask Louis, “are you okay?”

“Yes. He really did just want to talk.”

Papi half-turns at that. He looks Louis up and down, like he doesn’t believe him and thinks he might find evidence of violence. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“About what?” He’s got Papi’s full attention now. He considers his options for a moment and decides to go with a version of the truth.

“I think he was offering me protection.”

“Protection,” Papi repeats, incredulous. 

Louis isn’t sure why he’s reluctant to get specific. Maybe because it’s too close to admitting the fears in his own heart. But Papi’s starting to look concerned, and maybe a bit angry. 

“Protection for what, Dega?”

“It’s nothing,” Louis shrugs, as though saying so will convince either one of them. “He pointed out the flaw in our deal--that by its very nature you’ll leave me unprotected one day--and he offered an alternative.”

Papi’s eyebrows raise. “Did he now? And what did you say?”

“I told him I was happy with our arrangement.”

Papi relaxes slightly. It’s only after a moment that he asks, “are you?”

Louis gives him a hard look. “It’s not like we haven’t discussed this before. He’s not wrong--I will, obviously, be left unprotected once you break out.” Papi nods, but it’s a hesitant motion. “But that is our arrangement, and I intend to honor it.”

“Okay,” Papi says after a few moments, face unreadable. Louis tries not to wilt with disappointed when it’s clear that that’s the end of the conversation. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but some part of him had hoped that this would prompt a discussion of Louis’ desire to participate in Papi’s escape.

No such luck. 

He trails an extra step behind Papi as they head out for a long day of labor.

✧ ✧ ✧

Guittou seems to loiter persistently in Henri’s peripheral vision after that morning. It’s been days but Dega hasn’t said anything else about it, so Henri doesn’t bring it up either. It’s easier on them both to ignore the tension that that conversation had stirred up. 

Henri grits his teeth as Guittou scratches at his mouth and pretends he’s not watching them from the end of the walkway. Dega’s either not paying attention or he’s playing the same game at pretending not to notice their shadow. He scribbles contentedly at his notebook, and as Henri smokes he adds increasingly elaborate lines to what Henri thinks is their limited view of the horizon. 

They’re waiting for their turn to shower, and it’ll be another hour at least. They’re among the last batch for the day--it had been Dega’s idea to change up their routine after El Caimán’s assault. Henri hadn’t objected but he’s not sure what difference it makes. Caimán’s got some money, and he’s obviously not afraid to throw it around to go after what he wants. Henri doesn’t doubt that the man tries to keep one pair of eyes on them as often as possible, so a change in their schedule feels futile. Guittou might even be one of those pairs of eyes.

But he doesn’t share those doubts with Dega. He appreciates that the other man is trying to problem-solve a problem for which there isn’t much of a solution. Short of Caimán escaping, dying, or being released, he’s going to remain a thorn in their side. 

After all, it’s Caimán more than anyone else that Henri worries about. He’s confident he can handle the arrogant prick, but as Guittou was apparently so kind to point out, he won’t be around forever. 

But then, it won’t be his problem at that point, either. Dega will have to figure it out.

It’s somehow not a comforting thought.

Henri sucks in smoke and lets it out with a long sigh. Dega glances up at him, then looks around before burying his nose back in his notebook. Henri doesn’t miss the way his companion’s eyes skip over Guittou.

So he has noticed. 

Henri often wonders what goes on in Dega’s head. He wonders again now and as usual he comes up short, so he leans in and makes a show of studying Dega’s sketch. The series of seemingly senseless scribbles are transforming into a recognizable treeline. 

“Is that--what--a dog?” he asks, just to tease him. 

Dega looks up slowly and Henri doesn’t bother to hide his amusement. “Funny,” he drawls, and although he doesn’t seem offended Henri feels a twinge of guilt. 

“I’m only kidding.”

“I know.” Dega goes back to drawing, but not before jabbing Henri lightly in the ribs for good measure.

Henri smiles and takes the last drag of his cigarette. He flicks it over the walkway and watches it disappear somewhere below.

“Is he going to stand there all day?” Dega mutters, and it’s the first hint of frustration that Henri’s picked up from him in regard to Guittou. Henri glances over at their unwelcome observer, and finds Guittou staring mulishly up at the sky. 

“Probably. Want me to tell him to fuck off?”

Dega appears to consider it. His hand stills on the page. “No,” he says after a quiet moment. “Leave him be. Let him waste his time if he wants, he’s not hurting anyone.”

 _Not yet_ , Henri wants to joke, but that seems a bit unfair, and there’s no reason to alarm Dega. “Whatever you say,” he says instead, stretching out against the pillar.

“Do you think…”

Henri waits for the rest, but when it’s clear that’s all Dega going to say Henri looks over again. “Do I think what?”

Dega taps the end of the pencil against his lips and Henri thinks he looks conflicted. Henri can’t imagine why though. 

“Nevermind,” Dega says, but when he dips his head to resume his doodle Henri can tell something’s off. 

He considers pressing the matter, but he knows Dega can be stubborn at all the wrong times. His mind casts around for something to say and he eventually lands on, “you draw a lot of plants lately.”

Dega huffs a little laugh and shrugs. “Not much else to look at.”

“You can give Guittou a try. Even you can’t make him look much worse,” Henri jokes, and is only a little disappointed when Dega doesn’t rise to the bait. But Henri wants to talk, and so he tries again with a sharper hook. “You don’t draw your wife much anymore. What, you forget what she looks like?”

He hears Dega suck in a breath, and he recognizes his mistake for what it is when Dega’s shoulder goes tense and his hand goes still again. Henri can practically feel him trying to figure out what to say, and Henri nearly apologizes but doesn’t. He watches from the corner of his eye as Dega shuts the notebook and tucks the pencil back into the safety of his shirt pocket.

 _Ah, shit_ , he thinks. He feels Dega shift until they’re not touching and he fights down a twinge of annoyance. “Don’t be so sensitive,” he warns, “you know I’m joking.”

“Yes,” Dega says, and his reply is quick but cold. “As I said--funny.”

“Dega--”

“It’s fine,” Dega interrupts, but he stands as he says it. Henri grabs his wrist and twists as Dega tries to walk away, and Dega’s eyes are hot with indignation as he tries to pull free.

“Papi. Let go.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Henri commands. 

“I am neither sensitive nor stupid,” Dega retorts haughtily. “But I am going to sit over there.”

Henri lets him go when he pulls again, but he does so reluctantly. Dega’s true to his word and he sits with his back to Henri against the next pillar a few feet down the way. Henri’s not pleased, but at least Dega had the sense to seek out space in the opposite direction as the still-staring Guittou. 

“Shit,” he grunts out, mostly to himself.

He lights another cigarette and stares hard at the smoke.

✧ ✧ ✧

“I’m sorry,” Dega says late that night, long after Henri thinks he’s fallen asleep. 

Henri shifts, then rolls over onto his back, angling his head so that he can watch Dega fidget in the waning moonlight. 

“You were right. I shouldn’t have been so sensitive--”

“Hey, it’s fine. Just go to sleep.”

Dega doesn’t argue, but he also doesn’t listen. Henri knows the other man is still dwelling on it, can nearly hear him grinding his teeth with anxiety. “Seriously, Dega, you’re fine.”

“It’s just…”

“I know,” Henri says tiredly. He’s aiming for reassuring, for understanding, because he left someone behind, too. “But you should get some sleep.”

Henri hopes that’s the end of it, but just as he’s starting to drift off again Dega’s low voice startles him back into wakefulness. 

“How are things going with Celier?”

The question is deceptively light. Henri doesn’t need three guesses to figure out what Dega’s really thinking about. “This isn’t the place to talk about it,” he warns, because Dega knows better than to discuss plans in the barracks--it’s impossible to tell who’s laying awake and listening. 

Chastised, Dega rolls onto his other side. It's clear that he means to sleep facing away from Henri for the first time since they’d arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is choppy and not really up to the standard I'd like it to be, but I'm trying not to overthink it. I'd probably never post anything if I went down that road lol.
> 
> So yeah! Guittou is an interesting character. I was a bit unnerved by his constant, silent presence in the first part of the movie, and I wanted to explore that a bit. I later found out that he speaks to Papi and Julot in one of the deleted scenes, but still--without that he's just kinda there, creeping around, watching them, and then he abruptly disappears. 
> 
> Anyway, mind the tags but know that this is a work in progress and that they might change over time!


	2. Deux

Louis is lifting rocks, throwing them into the cart, and picking up more rocks. He does this over and over, for hours on end, and as the sun marches across the endless sky he starts to budget his money in his head.

How much would Papi need to escape?

Louis hopes he won’t need all of it. Louis will hand it over, as promised, if he needs to, but he understands the importance of having a plan for _after_. 

If Papi takes three-quarters of what Louis has left, would the remainder be enough to buy adequate protection? 

How long would he need it?

His lawyer and his wife had promised he’d be back in Paris by Christmas, and Louis isn’t exactly consulting a calendar but he’s pretty sure that’s still months away. The tropics of French Guiana make it difficult to tell, though--he’s heard that even the winter nights are a balmy twenty degrees centigrade at their coldest.

And if his appeal failed--? 

Louis stumbles out of his thoughts as someone slams their shoulder against his, and the four fist-sized rocks he had been carrying tumble out of his arms. He stoops to pick them up and turns his head to shoot Celier a cold stare, but the man’s already swaggering away. Louis stands, face burning with humiliation, and glances at Papi. But Papi’s not looking. If he’d seen what Celier had done, he’s pretending that he hadn’t.

Louis swallows, throat tight with anger, and reluctantly resumes his path to the cart. He tries to keep his head up but he knows that he’s broadcasting defeat with every hesitant movement of his body.

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis is alone again. 

Papi had been quick to pull Celier aside after work that day and so Louis stands by himself, arms curled protectively over his stomach, leaning against one of the shaded walls outside of the barracks. It’s been harder than normal to catch his breath today and he wonders if it’s stress. 

He leans his head back and turns his neck as far as it will turn, and he can just barely see Papi’s shoulder from around the corner. He wants to approach, to listen in and offer suggestions if he can--he may not be going with them, but he still wants to help Papillon if he can. He knows he isn’t welcome though. Celier would just as soon throw a punch as he would walk away, and he certainly wouldn’t listen to anything that Louis had to offer. 

No, as far as Papi and Celier are concerned, he’s little more than a mule, a glorified, living coinpurse to keep the money safe and close at hand. 

Louis quickly berates himself for the thought. This is what he agreed to, it’s the deal that’s kept him alive, and dwelling in self-pity isn’t going to get him anywhere. He draws in a slow, calming breath and turns around again, and he isn’t surprised to find Guittou watching from across the courtyard. Annoyance immediately slithers into his belly at the sight of the other man standing out in the sun, sweating and staring, but he keeps his face painfully neutral because he’s come to the realization that, regardless of his unknowable intentions, Guittou may be his sole ally aside from Papi. 

It’s not a comforting thought, but Louis doesn’t have the luxury of being choosy about who he associates with and he most definitely can’t afford to piss anyone else off. He aims a slow nod of acknowledgement at Guittou, who smiles in a bland sort of way and jerks his head in a _come over here_ motion. Louis glances over at Papi and finds his shoulder to be in the same place--still engaged in his planning with Celier, then. 

Louis wonders if it’s time that he made his own plans. He turns back, conflicted, and meets Guittou’s patient gaze again. He understands the stakes, he knows Guittou’s not wrong, but finds that his thoughts falter at the conclusion that leaves him with. 

Betraying Papillon is unthinkable, and whether it’s cowardice or some strange sense of loyalty, he isn’t ready to abandon their partnership.

But he is tired of this game--he's tired of being watched. He pushes off of the building and leaves the sliver of shade that Papi can claimed for them, and he approaches Guittou slowly. He's not sure what he's going to say yet, but he's sure he’ll figure it out.

Guittou looks pleased, relieved even, as Louis comes to stand a polite distance away, and Louis understands that Guittou has misread his intentions. 

“There’s someone you should meet,” Guittou greets without preamble. 

"I'm not here to accept your offer," Louis announces. "As I said, I'm content in my partnership with Papillon."

Guittou looks as though he's been slapped. The relief in his face has twisted into bitter confusion. "Then what--?"

"I'm just trying to understand exactly what it is that you're offering me."

"A chance to live to see your appeal," comes an immediate retort. It sounds prepared. Louis will readily admit that living with terror for weeks on end has triggered an innate mistrust in him, but Guittou sounds _rehearsed_.

"What is it to you?" Louis asks, taking a quick step closer into Guittou's space. He tries to channel the confidence of the man he'd once been--the kind of man who could pass a homemade forgery off as the real deal to some of the most powerful men in Marseille. "What do you care about me or my appeal?"

Guittou is quiet for a moment. Louis can see that he's not intimidated by Louis' proximity but he is giving the question some serious consideration. "Julot left me here." He replies after a moment, and he says it like every word is a stubborn tooth being pulled from the root. "He left me here to rot."

"...I don’t--I didn’t know that he was going to take you with him."

"That's what he said," Guittou says, scratching angrily at his mouth. "We were supposed to go together."

"I'm--sorry," Louis offers hesitantly, floundering at the revelation. He hadn’t expected to be given a reason to console Guittou.

"I have medical training, did you know that?"

Louis studies Guittou's eyes, which are pinched dark with anger, and suddenly thinks he understands. "You were assigned to the hospital."

Guittou nods. He clenches his teeth so hard Louis can see the muscles twitch in his jaw. "Julot was supposed to wait until my shift that morning. We were going to go together. Inmates are searched when they're processed into the infirmary. After he cut his leg Julot had me hold onto that knife, the one Tribouillard tried to gut you with, before he climbed onto that ladder and jumped off the ship."

Louis swallows hard at the reminder of that night, of Tribouillard. He tries to banish the image of Galgani’s wet, coiled entrails in the dark, tries not to think about the meaty hand that had pet back his hair.

"Once I was assigned to the hospital, I gave it back to him, as promised. He was supposed to _wait_ for me--we had a _plan_. Instead he attacks the guards before I got there the next morning and he just--leaves."

"I'm sorry," Louis says again, this time with genuine sympathy.

"It was deliberate, Dega. He used me and then left me behind because he didn't want me to slow him down. He’s a snake." Guittou's studying him back now, his gaze razor sharp. "Papillon's going to leave you behind, too."

"Yes, but I agreed to that. I was never under the illusion that I would go with him."

"Maybe not, but you didn't know it would be like this."

Louis doesn't flinch, doesn't even blink, but the words break across him like a fist. It's his own whispered confession thrown back in his face.

"You didn't know," Guittou says, his voice softening with pity. "You never stood a chance on your own, but Papillon's only drawn more attention to you, Dega. He's careless. He likes to fight but he won't kill for you. He’s said so himself. Once he's gone... all those convicts he's hurt, the ones he's humiliated? They'll come for you. And you won't have your money to protect you then."

"I don't expect Papi to kill for me," Louis protests, latching on to the easiest argument and pretending that that's the point of contention. His head hurts and he regrets his foolishness--why had he initiated this conversation? "He’s not a murderer. I respect him for that."

Guittou’s brow is stooped low over his eyes. “What’s that get you when you’re dead?”

Louis gapes helplessly for a moment, and then stands his ground. “I’ve already promised the money to Papillon. I am not going back on my word. I have nothing left to offer whoever it is that you--”

“You can work something out.”

"What does that mean?" Louis asks, frustrating splintering through his voice.

"Someone like you, you always have more to offer than just money," Guittou says. And he says it slowly, as if explaining a complex concept to a child. "But you have to act, Dega. By the time Papillon leaves, there might not be time to... figure things out, with someone else."

Louis can blame the sun for the angry burn of heat on his face, but he can't blame it for the way his jaw sets in defiance at the softly-spoken implication. He straightens his back and lifts his chin, trying to summon a modicum of authority. “You have my answer. You should leave before Papi comes back.”

The irony of using _Papi’s_ authority as a threat isn’t lost on him, but he can only work with what he’s got.

For a moment Louis thinks Guittou will refuse. His face is tense, gaze fixed, and his hands flex in a quick motion of frustration. But then his eyes dart to something behind Louis and he can see anxiety creep in, because Guittou is smart enough to be scared of Papillon's temper. He nods and then lays an awkward hand on Louis' shoulder. "I suggest you rethink your position, Dega. While you still can."

He drops his hand before Louis can shrug it off, and he only glances back once before he slips into the crowd of red and white stripes. Louis stares after him and wrestles with the rising fear in his heart.

✧ ✧ ✧

“He wants half now, upfront. Four thousand.”

Henri exhales slowly, rubbing at his forehead. Eight thousand for a boat, and probably a shitty one at that. “That sounds high,” he tells Celier, who shrugs.

“How much does Dega have?”

It’s not the first time that Celier’s asked that particular question and Henri suspects it won’t be the last. He genuinely doesn’t know how much is tucked away in the capsule, but he knows admitting that won’t inspire confidence in Celier or his contact on the outside.

“He has enough,” he hedges, and that’s probably true enough.

“He had better.” 

Celier’s voice is dark with a promise, one that Henri doesn’t care for. He’s confronted Celier about his behavior toward Dega more than once but it never seems to make any difference. If anything, Celier seems to grow angrier the more Henri defends Dega. So Henri bites his tongue and settles for a hard look, which Celier ignores with remarkable ease.

“Get the money as soon as you can, Papi, and then forget about Dega. He’s not going to be your problem for much longer. Hell, you should get him used to a little independence, you know? He’s not going to have a fun time here without you to hide behind.”

Tongue-biting forgotten, Henri bristles at Celier’s cheerful nonchalance on the subject. “What’s your problem?” he hisses. “You’ve been a prick about Dega from day one--”

“And what?” Celier challenges, eyes cool. “What do you care?”

 _He’s my friend,_ Henri thinks, but doesn’t say out loud. “He’s doing the best he can. You shoving him around every chance you get isn’t helping.”

Celier snorts. “You’ve gotten attached. Papi, he may be a runt of a man but he’s not your puppy dog.”

Henri takes a threatening step forward before he can think better of it--there’s no sense in fistfighting the one man he’s trusted to obtain a boat, after all--but Celier is neither intimidated nor offended. If anything, he seems amused. “Very attached, it seems.” He looks Henri up and down as though searching for something. “Why is that, I wonder? You’re not actually fucking him, are you?”

Henri gives him a long, even look. Celier doesn’t quail under the weight of it but he doesn’t press his luck, either. He only crosses his arms and regards him with cool indifference. “Get the money, Papi.”

“Yeah,” Henri mutters. He turns away before he says something he knows he’ll come to regret. He hears Celier making a tutting sound behind his back and wonders if he’s made a mistake trusting the ex-sailor. Celier has connections and he has the skill to pull off a treacherous journey at sea, but Henri knows that Dega’s assessment of the man as temperamental and short-sighted isn’t far from the mark. 

Maybe it’s time to rethink his plan. 

But it’s likely more dangerous to cut Celier out than trust him at this point. Henri’s afraid he’s already shared too much, and in doing so has made Dega an even bigger target. If Celier sensed that he was being cut out, there was no telling what he would do--the only thing Henri’s certain of is that Dega would not survive the aftermath of Celier’s retaliation.

The thought is more wrenching than it rightfully should be. Celier might have a point about his attachment. 

He rubs the sweat from the back of his neck and turns the corner to find Dega waiting right where Henri left him. Henri feels a prickle of concern at the look on the smaller man’s face--he seems nervous.

“You alright?” he asks quietly, sidling up next to Dega and leaning on the concrete wall. He surveys the open area slowly, and predictably finds a handful of men watching him back. They turn their heads as if disappointed that he had returned. 

“Yes, I’m fine,” Dega says. His voice is even but it’s an obvious lie. Henri knows all of Dega’s more obvious tells by now--the twitch of his hands, the taut line of his mouth, the restless eyes that can’t seem to settle on anything. 

“Uh-huh. Something happen?”

“No.”

“Anyone bother you?”

Dega hesitates. Henri wonders why he has to resort to a near-interrogation in order to pull this kind of information out of the other man. 

“What happened?”

“Nothing _happened _,” Dega replies curtly. “Our friend Guittou stopped by to say hello again.”__

__“What did he want this time?” Henri tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but he can’t stop the contempt that creeps up into the back of his throat at any mention of that man._ _

__Dega’s unsteady gaze shifts to Henri and then quickly away again. “Nothing in particular. He wanted to talk about our arrangement again. I reminded him that I’m not interested.”_ _

__“Dega--”_ _

__“What did Celier say?” the forger interrupts, not even feigning a tactful segue._ _

__Henri regards him warily for a few moments. He’s hoping to sweat Dega out, make him backpedal and explain what the hell was really going on, but Dega’s as stubborn as ever and Henri’s tired of arguing in the sweltering afternoon._ _

__“He’s waiting on a guy with a boat.”_ _

__“Ah,” Dega says, nodding his head, and Henri picks up on an edge of despair in his voice._ _

___It must be hard,_ he thinks, _the idea of being left behind.__ _

__In truth, Henri’s reconsidering their deal. He has been since the night of El Caimán’s assault, when Dega had murmured in his ear, had asked Henri to call him by his first name. Henri hasn’t conceded the truth of his potential change of heart to Dega--he doesn’t want to get Dega’s hopes up, in part because he wants Dega to be prepared for the worst. But more than anything, Henri isn’t in the practice of making promises he can’t keep._ _

__It didn’t help that Dega was being cagey about potential threats._ _

__Henri clears his throat and pushes off against the wall, then turns expectantly to Dega when he doesn’t immediately follow Henri’s lead. He finds that Dega’s eyes are closed._ _

__“You coming?” he asks lightly._ _

__Dega’s mouth flattens into a line. “How much does Celier need?”_ _

__The question turns Henri’s stomach for reasons he doesn’t bother to examine. “Don’t worry about that right now.”_ _

__Dega’s eyes open and he regards Henri with surprise. “Papi--”_ _

__“Later, Dega. Now come on. It’s hot as hell and I want to shower.”_ _

__He turns and starts walking, trusting Dega to have the sense to follow, and he’s only traveled a few steps away before a familiar shadow falls in line at his heels._ _

____

✧ ✧ ✧

It starts with a tickle in the back of his throat.

At first Henri thinks he's just especially thirsty, it's been a long day in the sun after all, but when an inmate circles around with the water pail he finds the tickle intensifies into an ache whenever he swallows.

He tries to ignore it. By the time he and Dega settle into their usual after-work spot on the prison walkway his head aches so intensely he can’t keep his eyes open.

"What's wrong?" Dega asks, and Henri realizes the other man had been chattering through a one-sided conversation for a while. Henri weighs his options and decides to be honest.

"Don't feel great."

They're already pressed together, shoulder to shoulder, and Henri can feel Dega shift. He imagines that Dega's scrutinizing him closely, and he opens his eyes in an effort to look more coherent than he feels.

"Why? What’s wrong?"

"Head hurts. Throat, too."

"You're sick, Papi," Dega concludes immediately, worry tinting his voice low. Henri sees his arm make an aborted motion and wonders if Dega had been about to feel his forehead. Dega playing nursemaid--the absurdity of the thought makes him smile.

He turns and finds Dega chewing his lip. Henri can see the wheels turning in his head.

"I'll be fine, I just need some sleep," Henri says. He closes his eyes again and leans his head back against the pillar.

"Okay," Dega agrees, but Henri can tell he's nervous.

"Don't worry, Dega, I can still protect you," he grumbles good-naturedly, and he feels Dega shake his head.

"I know. I know that, that's not what--Should you go to the infirmary?"

"For a headache?" Henri scoffs.

"It might turn into more.”

"Not much they can do about this kind of thing. Besides, can't keep you safe from the hospital." Henri says it softly, like it's a joke, but he knows Dega understands how serious he is.

Dega huffs out a little sigh. Henri expects him to go back to scribbling but there's no hurried scratch of pencil on paper. They sit quietly and Henri only realizes how cold he is when he finds himself appreciating the warmth of Dega's shoulder.

✧ ✧ ✧

Henri's quaking with chills by the time they settle in for the night. He knows Dega is fretting but he's glad the other man has the sense to keep his mouth shut--no point in advertising that Henri's feeling less than spectacular to the other men. 

Henri curls on his right side, trying to huddle into himself for warmth. He feels his body give a particularly violent shudder and then Dega's wiggling closer. Henri doesn't complain when he presses himself tight to Henri's back, shifting until they're laying flush against one another. Dega doesn't dare put an arm around him, though. _Not like it would matter,_ Henri thinks with dull amusement, relaxing as Dega's heat seeps into him. _They already think I'm fucking you._

Henri hasn't done anything to dissuade anyone of that opinion, mostly because he doesn't care--he'd been enjoying Paris in the prime of his life, after all, and he'd had his share of companions before he'd met Nennete. Most were women, but not all.

It's also a good cover for the few inmates who don't know about Dega's money.

So no, Henri hasn't denied the implications or the outright accusations, but he hadn't encouraged them either. Now he wonders if maybe he should have, because he's aching and cold and maybe Dega _should_ put an arm around him.

He thinks about asking but he doesn’t.

✧ ✧ ✧

"Papi," comes a whisper in the night.

Henri jerks and tries to sit up, disoriented, but someone restrains him from behind. He tenses, ready to fight, but then a hand pats him soothingly on the back. "It's alright, it's me."

"What?" Henri asks, too loud. His throat burns. "What's wrong?"

"You were talking in your sleep again," Dega murmurs. He tugs at Henri until he lies back down, and Henri doesn't protest when Dega's warm hand stays pressed against his side. "You were getting loud."

"Oh."

Dega speaks haltingly, like he's not sure he should. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to wake you again, but--"

"It's fine." Henri closes his eyes. “At least I didn’t hit you this time.”

Dega relaxes against him. His hand still hasn’t retreated.

"What was I saying?"

"Hm?"

Henri clears his throat, ignores the way that makes it ache even more. "What was I saying in my sleep?"

"Oh. I don't know."

"Okay," he says, just to say anything at all. It’s hard to think straight.

"Sorry," Dega whispers again. "Go back to sleep."

Henri’s head has begun to pound and thinks it will be difficult to slip under again, but he’s drifting off before he finishes wondering if Dega will stay pressed against him throughout the night.

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis is worried. For all of Papi's bravado, the man is clearly ill. He lets Papi sleep even after the sun rises and the other men are sitting up and staring, and he doesn't move away--Papi is still quaking despite the humid morning.

Someone makes a mock-kissing sound in their direction. Louis doesn't even bother to look up. The other men have already made their assumptions. He only sits up and shakes Papi gently by the shoulder when a turnkey arrives to release their barrack from the ankle bars.

Papi wakes slowly, as if he's dragging himself up from some deep place. The skin beneath his eyes is dark, and sweat is beaded along his hairline even though he's still shivering slightly. Louis studies him, absently rubbing Papi's forearm, and then he makes up his mind.

"You have to go to the infirmary," he murmurs, as strictly as he can muster, eyes sliding past Papi to where the turnkey is releasing the men closest to the door. "You can't work today."

"I'm fine," Papi rasps, and when Louis flicks his eyes back over he finds Papi watching him with something that edges on anger. "Don't worry."

"I'm not," Louis protests lamely, lacking all conviction. "I just--"

"I'll be fine."

There's no arguing with that tone. Papillon doesn’t use it on him often anymore, but it’s embarrassingly effective. Papi pulls away from him then and Louis leans back, stung, and says nothing as their ankles are freed. Papi sways when he stands and Louis’ hands flutter for a moment, wanting to reach out to help, knowing better than to try.

Louis pulls his striped shirt on and watches as Papi struggles with his shoes, face flushed. He glances around and finds that most everyone else is preoccupied with their own morning routine now--only Guittou still stares, eyes dark beneath his brow.

Louis avoids his gaze and follows Papi out of the barracks.

✧ ✧ ✧

Henri feels bad.

Not just sick, but guilty now as well. He knows he shouldn't have snapped at Dega. He's normally more patient with the other man, but he's exhausted and sore all over, and he recognizes the beginnings of a bad fever.

He's also frustrated. Dega's not listening. He's already explained why he can't go to the infirmary. Even if the guards cared enough to allow him to go, he can't leave Dega to fend for himself.

No, he knows there's nothing to do except push through it.

✧ ✧ ✧

Route Zero is always hard work and it's certainly not easier in Henri's condition, but he does well enough. If he moves a bit more slowly than normal no one dares to comment on it.

Around midday Henri notices that Dega's working double-time, taking larger rocks than usual and moving as quickly as he can, flitting from the pile to the cart and back in what must be record time for him.

Henri smiles to himself at that, amused at Dega's efforts, but the smile fades when he catches a glimpse of Dega's hands. They're torn up from the rough treatment, but Dega doesn't seem to notice. His attention is elsewhere, and as Henri watches he notes that Dega's gaze is constantly roving between Henri and the other inmates. His eyes linger at something or someone past the row of carts, but Henri can't see what's got him in such a mood. He thinks Celier, maybe--he and Dega always seemed to be circling one another, but he's too tired to investigate. 

As long as everyone keeps their distance, it's not worth it to worry.

✧ ✧ ✧

Henri groans and lowers himself onto the track platform, laying back and throwing an arm over his eyes to block out the overbright day. Dega settles in next to him, still breathing hard.

He's been abnormally quiet all day but Henri's not sure if he's sulking over Henri's attitude that morning or if he's just on edge. Could be both. Henri wants to say something to reassure him but he can't find the words or the strength to force them out.

He's drifting in and out of sleep when Dega nudges him softly.

"Papi," Dega prompts. "Here."

Henri lifts his arm, and then his head. Dega's huge eyes watch him, his hand extended. Henri takes the offered bread and lies his head back down.

"Aren't you going to eat?"

Henri grunts in reply, and then regrets it. He rubs absently at his throat with he free hand.

"Papi--"

"I'm fine. I just need a minute."

Dega quiets down, but it's only a few moments before Henri feels a shadow shift across him.

"Dega--" he complains, then stiffens when he realizes someone's sitting on his other side. He blinks his eyes open and finds Celier looming over him.

"Papi," the sailor greets, voice booming. "You look like shit."

Henri's mouth twitches in a smile. "Thanks." He struggles to sit up and hears Celier make a disapproving noise when Dega quickly moves to assist him. He watches as Celier sits back and stuffs half of his bread into his mouth. Henri's own bread sits untouched in his hand.

"What's wrong with you?" Celier asks.

"Nothing," Henri says smoothly. He knows Celier isn't buying it, but he doesn't particularly care. He makes a point of taking a bite of bread and finds it's dry and flavorless in his mouth. It takes an effort to swallow.

Celier bobs his head and then turns away to study the horizon. Henri looks to Dega, who seems even more drained than he had five minutes ago. Henri notes that Dega hasn't touched his meager lunch either, and he bumps their shoulders together.

Dega's head snaps up in surprise. He blinks at Henri with an unspoken question.

"Not hungry?" Henri asks gently.

"Oh." Dega looks down and turns the lump of bread in his hands. "No. I mean--yes, but, I was thinking you should keep up your strength."

Henri raises his eyebrows and Dega elaborates quietly. "If you take part of my share--"

"Not sure I can even finish mine."

"You should try. You need to eat as much as you can."

"I am," Henri says, trying to stifle another wave of annoyance. Dega's eyes narrow with a similar frustration.

"Papi--"

"Hey, shut up. He says he's fine, he's fine," Celier interjects with more animosity than necessary. Dega clenches his teeth. As with many of the conflicts between Dega and Celier, Henri's torn between letting them figure it out themselves and rising to Dega's defense.

Dega, thankfully, only shoots Celier a sharp look before turning away. Henri studies the side of Dega's dejected face and finds he wants to lie back down. Instead, he takes another bite of his bread and chews mechanically. He swallows, coughs, and finishes with another large bite. He's so focused on not choking that he nearly misses it when Celier's hand whips out and plucks the untouched bread right out of Dega's hands.

Dega's reaction is immediate. He stands and balls his hands into fists, but Henri raises a hand in warning before he has the chance to do something stupid.

Henri uses his other hand to grab the sailor by the wrist. "What are you doing?" he asks hoarsely, and Celier shows his teeth when he smiles.

"Little man's not hungry. Can't let it go to waste."

Dega glances between them, some internal struggle clearly churning in his head, and then he seems to deflate. His hands go limp and he steps back, dropping his head. Henri's pulse thumps in anger at the sight of his friend's submission.

"Celier--" he warns.

"It's fine," Dega interrupts. He sits back down and tucks his empty hands in his lap.

Henri turns to stare Celier down and finds that he's already halfway through Dega's bread. He shrugs when he notices Henri staring. Henri opens his mouth, eyes flashing, but feels Dega's fingers press against his arm.

"It's fine," the forger says again, quietly but with more conviction this time.

"See, Papi?" Celier says around the last mouthful of Dega's bread. He claps Henri roughly on the back. "We're all good."

Dega's hand slips weakly away from Henri's arm, and then a guard is barking for them to get up and get back to work before Henri can figure out what to say.

His head throbs.

✧ ✧ ✧

Henri's day only goes downhill from there. What's left of his energy drains as the sun cruises leisurely across the sky, and he finds his eyes blurring with exhaustion. He's burning up, and then he's shivering. He tries to keep an eye on Dega and loses track of him more often than he'd like, but the smaller man always makes it back to his side before panic could set in.

He's ready to drop by the time they stagger back through the prison courtyard and toward the showers. He strips and stands beneath the slow drip of water and groans in relief. He hears Dega showering contentedly next to him and he lets his thoughts drift for a while, eyes closed. He’s relaxed enough that he jumps when a hand suddenly taps him hard on the arm.

"What?" he rasps, scrubbing the water out of his eyes. Dega's got his glasses on--probably never took them off--and he has his gaze locked urgently on something past the iron fence.

Henri involuntarily grits his teeth at the sight of El Caimán leaning casually against the metal bars, resting his forehead on his lanky, tattooed arms, watching them from the outside.

Henri takes a threatening step forward.

Caimán continues to regard him cooly, unconcerned. He says nothing, and for a moment Henri wonders if his fever is bad enough that he's hallucinating. Then he remembers that Dega pointed the man out--so, no, for better or worse, not a hallucination. But a part of him can't believe that Caimán would be stupid enough to go after them in the showers a second time, not when his nose is still swollen and bruised.

"Papi," Dega says in his ear. Henri inclines his head to show he's listening but his eyes stay locked with Caimán's. "Let's go. Let's just go."

Henri's breathing fast and he fights off a wave of dizziness. He wants to argue with Dega, wants to march forward and put his fist into Caimán's face again, but he's paranoid that one of Caimán's lackeys will slip in behind him and go for Dega when his back is turned.

He feels the fight drain out of him at the realization that it's not worth it. He sees the moment Caimán recognizes that, and Henri’s hackles rise when the other man's dark eyes slide past him to Dega.

Caimán's face twists and Henri hears Dega take a step back at the intensity of of the expression. Henri's nostrils flare as he sucks in a harsh breath, but before he can make good on his impulse to connect his knuckles against Caimán's nose Dega wraps his fingers around his bicep and pulls.

Henri digs his heels in and stands his ground for a moment, unwilling to yield to the threat in Caimán's eyes, to the way they track Dega with an undisguised warning. But Dega hisses in his ear again and he reluctantly allows himself to be led back to where their clothes wait.

They dry and dress in silence, and Dega continues to throw uncertain glances over his shoulder.

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis’ anxiety has his stomach in knots.

Papi seems to be feeling worse by the moment, and he can't convince the other man to eat more than a bite of dinner. Louis prompts him to try, again and again, his own gut twisting with hunger, but Papi waves him off with annoyance.

Louis takes quick bites of his own meal. It's small, as always, and lacking in substance, but after missing lunch he eats as much as he can before Papi stands, sways, and heads to the barracks. It’s not even dark yet, but Papi declares that he needs to lie down. Louis follows at his heels, as usual, but this time he keeps a close eye on his friend. There's not much he can do but he stays on his toes in case Papi needs a steadying hand.

Louis shuffles ahead of Papi as they enter the barrack and beats him to the corner in order to arrange their bedding. He keeps Henri's blanket flat against the concrete--their usual technique to make a sad substitute for a mattress--and when Papi collapses down on top of it Louis drags his own blanket over the taller man.

Papi lifts his head, confused, and Louis’ fears multiply tenfold when Papi's eyes can't seem to track him.

Louis reaches out hesitantly and presses his hand against Papi's forehead, and he flinches back, startled, when Papi barks out a weak laugh.

"What?" Louis asks, but Papi only lowers his head back down as if he hadn't heard.

 _He's really out of it,_ Louis realizes. He begins to bite at his fingernails, and old habit he thought he'd kicked back in his school days, and knows he can only pray that Papi feels better in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think, if you get the chance! I don't have much experience with writing prose and I would definitely be appreciative of feedback about pacing, tone, and all of that kind of stuff.
> 
> Also, I'd love to know if you guys have strong feelings about what rating I should aim for with this story? I've already written a decent chunk ahead and I haven't made an effort to water anything down, but I'm not opposed to censoring explicit violence.


	3. Trois

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for graphic non-con elements in this chapter

In Henri’s dreams, he’s being hunted. He wanders through the winding alleyways of Paris in the dark, and although he can feel time ticking against him he doesn’t move with urgency. He turns a corner and weaves into a crowd in an unhurried attempt to make his way to familiar ground, but the further he presses in the harder the strangers press back. It’s as if they don't want to allow him through. The sense of calm that had guided him this far leaves him in an instant. He pants and sweats and curses the crowd, crushed between their bodies. He tries to turn back, to retreat back into that alleyway, but he’s disoriented.

“Wait,” he calls out to no one.

The mob rumbles back. Their collective voices are a wall of noise and Henri can't make out their faces in the gloom. He smells the sour reek of fear and wonders if it's his, and when someone grabs him by the shoulder he violently shakes them off.

"Please," someone begs from behind him, but he can hardly hear them over the roar of the crowd. "Papi, please."

He feels a hand at his hip.

"Papi?" The breathless, imploring voice pulls at a memory. 

_Dega,_ he realizes, and tries to turn to face him but he feels like he’s underwater, like he’s drowning in molasses, and he can’t make his body obey.

"I think you should take it, just for now." Dega is whispering, desperate, and Henri doesn't understand. The fingertips on his hip are trembling. “Please.”

Henri suddenly wants to laugh. He recognizes that Dega is upset but he can’t imagine why. _We're free,_ he thinks. He tries to say it too, but he’s overwhelmed with joy and his throat's swollen shut. _We're back, we're in Paris!_

The world suddenly feels limitless.

But then Dega's hand withdraws. The loss strikes deep at Henri and tries to reach for Dega’s wrist, but it's dark and it's hard to breathe and the buzzing of the crowd around him begins to mellow out into a dull hum.

He takes a sharp breath in and realizes that his eyes are closed. It's accompanied by the twin realizations that his head is pounding and he's still in prison. He’s still in French Guiana.

His heart sinks.

He coughs and turns onto his back. He can feel his underclothes clinging to him, damp with sweat, and he forces his burning eyes to focus on Dega in the dark. He finds his friend wide awake and staring at the ceiling, hands twisted in his own shirt.

"Hey," Henri tries to say, but it's little more than a hoarse rasp.

Dega's eyelids flutter but he doesn't turn to Henri. He doesn't say anything. Henri wonders if Dega even heard him. He reaches out and weakly brushes the back of his hand against Dega's arm, and finds himself surprised at the distance between them. Dega normally sleeps pressed against him and Henri feels a tight pinch of worry. He wonders if he’s done something to upset Dega. He can’t remember.

He nudges at his friend's arm again and Dega reluctantly faces him, but his glasses catch the moonlight and Henri can't make sense of his expression.

“What’s wrong?”

"Go back to sleep, Papi," Dega says, so quietly Henri wonders if his throat is hurting, too. "You need to rest."

That's true, and he's in a world of pain but he's awake enough now to be alarmed. Something isn’t right--Dega’s voice is thick and he’s acting strange. “What’s wrong?” he rasps out again.

Dega doesn’t answer. Henri lifts his head, woozy, and it drops back down without his permission. He realizes then that he's underestimated his illness. He nearly admits it out loud. He even nearly apologizes for it, but Dega suddenly turns away from him, focusing somewhere above their heads again. Henri remembers the bats, remembers to be concerned about them, but then quickly loses the thought. It's hard to concentrate. He lifts his trembling hand and wraps it around Dega's wrist. He pulls until Dega releases his death grip on his shirt. Henri doesn't know why he does this but it seems like the right thing to do.

Dega's skin feels clammy underneath his fingers. He can feel the quick twitch of Dega’s pulse. Too fast. 

He doesn’t let go.

"Hey," he tries again. He thinks it’s a good thing that Dega hasn’t pulled away and Henri doesn’t dwell too hard on the comfort that it brings him, being tethered together in the dark. Dega heartbeat flutters a quiet song against his fingertips and Henri allows himself to be lulled by it.

"Go to sleep, Papi," Dega whispers.

Henri squeezes his wrist and holds on tight long after he closes his eyes and drifts off again.

✧ ✧ ✧

Concerned. Louis is _concerned_. He will not allow himself to concede to another word--like frantic, or panicked, or hysterical--

Louis sucks in a breath and lets it out with a warbled sigh. The morning is bright and hot and he's left Papi behind in the barrack. Louis has to find a guard. He'd tried to rouse Papillon once the turnkey had arrived to release them, but the other man had only mumbled a weak plea under his breath, wheezed, and gone back to sleep. Louis knows that he has to get help, and to do that he's going to have to convince someone to take Papi to the infirmary.

Louis’ already got a crumbled bill out of the capsule--a bribe at the ready.

He squints against the angry morning sun and trots down the stairs, scanning the walkways for the closest thing he can find to a friendly face in uniform, and he's taken aback when he feels a strong hand grab his elbow from behind. _Papi_ is Louis’ immediate thought and he whirls around in relief. But it isn't Papi, because Papi's probably dying of a fever up in their barrack. 

Guittou doesn't react to Louis’ grunt of frustration at finding him attached to the hand that holds him still.

"Don't," Louis warns. "Not today."

Guittou's black eyes flash and he twists Louis’ arm and shoves hard. Louis crumples against the side of the building and stutters in a gasp as Guittou wrenches his arm behind his back. Guittou presses in close.

"Shut up," he hisses. "Just shut up, Dega."

Guittou's crushing him against the building hard enough that Louis’ not sure he could even draw in the air to protest. He tries anyway and hisses out, “get off of me.”

"I don't want to hurt you. But you need to start _listening to me_." Guittou emphasizes this with a sharp twist to Louis’ arm. "You're going to come with me. You're going to come with me right now and unless you want me to break your arm you're not going to say a fucking word. Do you understand?"

Louis nods his head slowly, cheek scraping against the rough concrete.

"Good," Guittou says, and Louis realizes that he's breathing hard. It’s ridiculous, but Louis thinks that Guittou seems scared. Guittou’s hand trembles and the feel of it fills Louis with a cold touch of dread.

Guittou releases his arm and takes a wary step back, obviously prepared to grab him again if he tries to run, but Louis has no intention of testing the other man's patience. He stays against the wall for a moment and slowly brings his aching arm around so that he can hold it protectively against his chest.

He hears Guittou retreat another step so he turns to stare, furious, but Guittou's avoiding his eyes.

"Come on," Guittou urges. "Come on, let's go. Right now."

"Where?" Louis asks. He doesn't have time for this. He needs to find a guard, get back to Papi--

Guittou presses a firm hand against his back and pushes until Louis stumbles along in front of him. Louis allows himself to be guided like an animal, but he hesitates when Guittou takes hold of his elbow and pulls him off the path near the main courtyard. Guittou leads him around the building and Louis’ eyes catch on the guillotine, glinting harshly under the strengthening light. His stomach clenches with alarm when Guittou draws him in front of the temporary solitary cells.

Papi had explained the purpose of the low, narrow building not long after they'd arrived--they were cramped, single-cell rooms that were meant to punish convicts who had toed the line of Warden Barrot's patience. The reasons were subjective, but whatever they had done to earn that punishment wasn’t severe enough to warrant a two year sentence at Île Saint-Joseph or decapitation.

But why--?

Guittou's grip tightens as they stop in front of a cell near the middle of the row. Louis stares into the small window but he can’t make out anything beyond the bars besides inky shadow. He breathes hard, instinctively knowing not to speak. Guittou keeps a firm hand on his arm but doesn’t say anything either, and Louis’ starting to lose his tentative grasp on his patience when something moves in the darkness.

Louis watches, paralyzed, as a pale hand wraps around one of the bars.

✧ ✧ ✧

The morning passes Henri by in a blur. He's aware of Dega, who is always in the periphery of his vision, helping him sit up, helping him put his shoes on, slinging Henri's arm over his shoulder and helping him stand. Everyone else is already gone. Henri burns and sweats and shivers, and it's all he can do to stagger along and keep his heavy eyes open.

Dega doesn't say anything, or at least Henri doesn't think he does. As they make the slow trek down to Route Zero, it doesn't escape Henri's notice that they're attracting a lot of attention. The world comes in and out of focus, but even in his sorry state he can see the knowing look in the eyes of the men that circle them, always watching.

Henri's face burns. If those fucks think he can't still take them--

Henri blinks and finds he's lost time. He's sitting propped against a cart and he dully registers a nearby _boom_ as a controlled explosion is detonated. He glances blearily around for Dega and feels his chest tighten when he can't find him for a moment. When he does, he's concerned to find Dega speaking to a guard, moving his hands slowly but with urgency. He gestures to Henri, and the guard looks over and then shakes his head. 

Henri frowns, head spinning, and tries to make sense of what he’s seeing. Dega's posture is expressive--he's asking the guard for something. Henri tries to stand, wanting to make his way to Dega to help him, but his leaden limbs don't listen. He thinks he sees Dega reach out and press his hand into the guard's. Henri recognizes the motion and sucks in a breath of surprise, and wheezes at the pain that comes with it.

The guard looks at Henri again and then he brings a hand up to pat Dega roughly on the cheek. The gesture is outrageously condescending and Henri bristles in fury. He curls his lip, ready to fight as the guard approaches and then hauls him up to his feet.

"What the hell--" he starts, but then Dega's there, pressing a hand gently between his shoulder blades to quiet him.

"You're going to the infirmary," Dega informs him. “It’s done, Papi. Don’t fight this.”

Henri reels back. Dega turns his face and slips away before Henri can articulate his anger.

"Hey!" he calls out, trying to follow, but the guard holds him in an unyielding grip. "Dega!"

Dega ignores him. His steps are clipped and anxious, his arms tucked in close to his body, and Henri is nauseous with fear. What the _fuck_ was Dega thinking? He looks around in bewilderment, wondering if he’s trapped in a strange new nightmare, and then finds himself spun around and unceremoniously dragged back toward the prison.

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis is cold. He's hot and he's sweating, but he's cold, too. He recognizes that his body is responding to the fear that's pumping through him.

Papi's gone, escorted to safety by a guard who is leaving slightly richer than he arrived that day. It’s difficult to part with any sum of money at this point, but Louis doesn't allow himself to dwell on the cost. He thinks of the dead man lying beside him on the track that first hard week of work and knows he'd never forgive himself if he allowed Papi to meet an end like that.

But...

He swallows down his panic at being left behind. The guard wanted triple to bring them both to the hospital and Louis had balked. He regrets it for a moment, then fights the feeling; there were still a handful of guards to keep things under control on the Route, he’ll be fine for a while.

But already El Caiman is swaggering around, his eyes bright with a violent promise, and Louis knows the man is only biding his time. He won't act now, not here, but Louis only has a precious few hours until they're marched back to the prison, and there the guards will disperse and his enemies will converge.

Louis adjusts his glasses and ignores the knowing look Celier sends his way.

✧ ✧ ✧

There’s somewhere Henri has to be. 

He’s not sure where that is, or why he needs to be there, but the desire is urgent enough that he fights the heavy pull of exhaustion. His arms twitch with the need to move.

“It’s okay, settle down.”

Henri frowns, teetering back and forth on the precipice of sleep. He doesn’t shy away when a cool hand settles over his forehead. “Dega--” he starts, then hesitates. Something tickles at his memory and he forces his eyes open against the last glare of evening light. 

The kind-hearted but useless prison doctor is watching him. 

“Welcome back to the world of the living,” the man says, clearly trying for a bit of levity. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” Henri tries to protest, but his mouth doesn’t want to cooperate and the words slur together.

“You will be. But for now you need to take these and rest.”

Henri eyes the two pale yellow pills that sit in the center of the doctor’s palm. He takes them apprehensively into his own hand, and then accepts the tin cup of water offered in the other. 

When he doesn’t swallow them, the doctor stares at him with obvious exasperation. “To help with your fever,” he explains. 

Henri’s leery of the medication, but he deposits the tablets on his tongue and then downs the water like a man dying of thirst. He thinks of Dega alone out in the sun--he’ll do what he needs to do. “What time is it?”

The doctor’s already rising, his attention shifting forward to the next patient. “Nearly time for supper. Don’t worry, you haven’t missed your meal.”

Henri’s hands fist in the thin blanket that’s pooled at his waist. He hadn’t realized it was already so late. What time had he been brought to the infirmary? He doesn’t think it was long after they’d arrived at the Route, but... He remembers collapsing, remembers Dega’s frantic murmuring, and then he remembers being dragged back to the prison. It’s a dark void of heat and pain after that.

Has he really been in the infirmary all day?

Urgency stabs through him again because he knows Dega will be back soon. And with him, no shortage of men looking to take something from him. The money is the primary concern--it’s nothing less than a fortune to these men and it’s like dangling meat in front of starving animals. But Dega has more than that to protect. Even without the incentive of cash, El Caiman will be out for blood, will want revenge for his injured face and ego. 

And, perhaps worst of all but least surprising, there were the men who wanted neither money nor vengeance. 

Celier had joked about it more than once, when Dega was far enough away that Celier could pretend that he didn’t want to be overheard. Some men wanted Dega’s _company_. It was a hell of euphemism, and Henri hadn’t missed the way Dega had tensed at the mention of it. 

It was an inevitable conclusion, in some ways. Dega’s easy prey--he’s small and he’s never been known to put up a struggle, but more than anything his face draws attention. The men who care to look express vulgar appreciation for his mouth and what use they’d like to make of it, they mockingly comment on his big eyes and the near-feminine lashes that frame them. Henri rarely has to do little more than take a threatening step to send them away at a scurry, but the remarks often linger awkwardly in the air between them. It’s difficult to ignore the fact that it’s an uncomfortable glimpse of Dega’s future in French Guiana. 

Henri lies back against the hospital pillow and feels a now-familiar pang of guilt. He thinks of Dega whispering in the dark. Henri had tried to dismiss it at the time, but that quiet plea has stuck with him all the same. 

_I have to go with you._

Henri scrubs hard at his face and tries to focus. There were more immediate things to be concerned with. Namely, how Dega would survive until Henri was released. He calls out when the doctor makes his way back across the floor and the other man approaches with a frown. 

“Hey,” Henri mutters when the doctor leans in. “When do I get out of here?”

The doctor seems distracted but he gives the question consideration. “Well. You’re awake, and mostly coherent, I think. Your fever is down--”

“I need to get back.”

“Back?” the doctor repeats, and then he stares at Henri with suspicion. Henri figures the man probably doesn’t get too many requests for a speedy release from the relative comfort of the infirmary. 

“Yeah.”

He meets the doctor’s curious gaze with a challenge. He thinks maybe the man remembers him, back from that medical inspection before their first trip down to Route Zero. Henri hopes the doctor remembers--he hopes he knows that Henri remembers, too. 

“I need to get back,” Henri says again, slowly. 

The doctor looks annoyed now and Henri’s suddenly worried that he’s misread the man--maybe he’ll keep Henri overnight just for the sake of it. 

“Alright.” Henri lets out a breath, ignoring the medic’s obvious disapproval. “I’ll ask for a guard to escort you back, when one can be spared.”

“Thanks,” Henri grumbles. He finds himself nearly dizzy with relief. The alternative would have been to try to find a way to break out of the hospital, and that could have any number of unpleasant consequences. “Thank you.” 

The doctor regards him with an unreadable expression, then shakes his head and moves on to the next bed.

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis avoids showering. He avoids eating. He settles himself in the perpetually well-guarded area that leads to the exterior courtyard and he doesn’t move. 

He’s safe enough here. The guards may not give a shit about him but they’re also not about to let a fight start right under their noses, and he hopes the rifles the guards on the walkways brandish are enough incentive to ward off any attempts. 

El Caiman had lingered for a long time after they’d returned from Route Zero. He was waiting for Louis to isolate himself but Louis was smarter than that. Caiman had slipped away after about two hours, presumably to eat, but Louis can’t trust any one of the dozen other men pacing restlessly around the area. Some stop to stare at him, curiosity or impatience painted across their faces, but others never seemed to notice him. He thinks maybe some don’t even recognize him when he’s not trailing at Papi’s heels. 

So, yes, it’s safe enough, but Louis can’t stay forever. The sun’s already dipped beyond the treetops of the distant hills, and what daylight lingers behind will be gone soon enough. Louis tangles a hand in his hair and tries not to think about the walk between the interior courtyard and the barracks. That’s where they’ll be waiting for him. 

Louis considers planting himself in front of the solitary cells as a last resort, but he knows that the man holding Guittou's leash won't be of any use to him as long as he's locked away behind that door.

No, Louis is on his own.

He makes himself as small as possible and doesn’t move from his place against the wall, huddled in plain sight, and he waits and waits.

✧ ✧ ✧

A long whistle sounds from the other side of the prison. Louis recognizes it as the signal to head toward the barracks for lock-up and his stomach cramps. He pushes reluctantly off of the wall and wraps his arms around himself. Some distant voice from within tells him to keep his hands free--to be prepared to fight. He almost smiles at the realization that the voice sounds remarkably like Papi’s. 

But it’s useless advice. Louis’ no more capable of fighting off one of these men than he is of climbing the towering concrete walls. 

No, his best bet is to try not to get caught. 

If he is caught, he only option is to submit and hope to survive. 

He shuffles forward, heart shuddering as he passes out of the safety of the interior court. His eyes ache with the strain of trying to see everything at once in the gloom. Someone jostles him hard from behind and he sucks in a breath and presses himself against the wall as a man he doesn’t recognize pushes past with a leer. 

Louis starts walking again, faster now, hoping that if can get to the barracks without incident he’ll be safe. There would be a few minutes, give or take, until the a turnkey arrived to secure them for the night but--

Wide fingers wrap around his face. He barely registers the sensation before the hand clenches tight over his mouth and jerks his head back. He struggles as he’s pulled flush against someone, the back of his head pressed tight against a sweaty shoulder. He claws uselessly as the man’s other arm wraps around his waist, as he’s dragged between two of the lower barracks.

Another man follows and Louis can recognize him even in the dying dusk. One of El Caiman’s subordinates. He moves in close, glancing apprehensively over his shoulder as other inmates shuffle along the path Dega was torn from. Some look over, meeting Louis’ bulging eyes, and then they quickly hustle away. 

Despair rests like a rock in Louis’ chest. 

Despite his earlier decision to roll over and surrender, he finds himself struggling--he tries biting at the hand clasped over his mouth, tries kicking at the long legs behind him, but the fight in him extinguishes at the sight of El Caiman sauntering around the corner. 

Louis freezes up. His mind hollows out as Caiman presses in close and plucks the glasses from his face without ceremony. 

If Louis wasn’t paralyzed with terror, he’d probably have appreciated the logic of the tactic. He’s effectively blind now. Caiman’s just a shape in the dark, and maybe Louis should be relieved that he doesn’t have to see the smug satisfaction on the other man’s face, but he’s not--he’s just scared. 

He jerks when Caiman’s heavy hand lands on his shoulder. It squeezes in a companionable way, as though to reassure him, and Louis squirms. He tries to pull away, to push back against the man he’s pinned against, but he’s held fast.

“You’re not going anywhere, you little cunt,” Caiman murmurs, his breath hot on Louis’ face. 

A hand grabs at the hem of his pants. He panics and tries to buck away when it slides in between the linen and his skin, but he can’t escape Caiman’s roving fingers. He makes a noise, a high-pitched sound of distress, and someone huffs out a laugh. Caiman presses closer and Louis fights with the desperation of a cornered creature, feeling more helpless than he’s ever been as he’s sandwiched in between the two men. Caiman’s hand shifts and Louis’ anguished cry is muffled as Caiman digs a finger into him. 

He twists in place and Caiman releases his shoulder in order to take his hip in an iron grip, holding him still as he pushes in deeper and searches for the capsule. Louis squeezes his eyes shut against the pain and pants wildly through his nose. He can’t get enough air, he’s going to suffocate--

He cries out hoarsely as he’s thrown to the ground, curling protectively in on himself as something slams down on him. Crushed into the dirt, Louis’ mind reels and he struggles against the weight, then he gulps in the sticky night air as it’s abruptly pushed away. A harsh hand encircles his upper arm and he’s lifted effortlessly. He tries to pull free, tries to dig his heels in, but another arm wraps around his waist again and he’s all but carried against his attacker. Louis tries to tear at those hands and can’t hear the voice hissing in his ear for the terror of it all. 

He hears shouting from behind him and then the shrill, angry call of a guard’s whistle. 

Something clicks in his head. He’s in an open space now and there’s a dim light nearby--a lamp, he thinks. His chest is heaving with the effort of just breathing and he doesn’t flinch when one of the hands moves from his waist to gently cup the back of his head. 

“You’re okay,” someone is saying. Louis thinks it’s not the first time it’s been said--it’s just the first time he’s been able to hear it, process it. 

“Papillon,” he answers breathlessly. The hand squeezes lightly. 

“You’re okay,” Papi says again, and Louis calms enough to grip at him. “You’re okay.”

Louis nods, though he doesn’t quite believe it, and then Papi’s pulling him along again. Louis goes easily, finding a too-familiar comfort in Papi’s guidance, and stumbles up the stairs with him. 

Louis doesn’t question where they’re going but he’s somehow surprised when he’s pushed down against the concrete platform of their barrack. He looks around wildly, eyes bulging, but he can’t make out anything distinct. It’s all just a dizzying warp of light and shadow. He’s still breathing hard and jumps when a pair of hands softly take his face between them. 

Louis reaches up to grip at the wrists. “I can’t--” he starts, but shuts up when Papi’s hands tighten.

“You’re okay,” Papi says again, like it’s a mantra. “Dega. It’s alright. I’ve got you.”

Louis stares into the blur. His mouth is dry and he can’t think of what to say. _Thank you,_ would probably be appropriate, but his mouth doesn’t cooperate when he tries to express his gratitude for Papi’s well-timed rescue. 

Papi’s hands leave his face and Louis feels the other man sit down beside him, tucked against his right side as usual. 

“Are you alright?” Papi asks, and his voice is low and gentle. Louis thinks he’s worried they’ll be overheard. 

“Yes,” he says after a moment of indecision. He’s not alright, but he’s not _hurt_ , not aside from the places where bruises are likely already blooming. He scrubs absently at his face and he’s relieved that it’s dry aside from a layer of perspiration. He wouldn’t have been surprised to have found tears but he’s grateful that he’d managed to keep that last shred of dignity intact.

“Okay. Okay, good.” Papi hesitates, and Louis knows what he’s going to ask next. 

“They didn’t take it,” he says in a quiet rush. Papi tenses up but says nothing, and for a moment Louis isn’t sure if the other man believes him. He thinks that Papillon will ask him to prove it and his mouth goes dry.

“Okay,” Papi says again. His hand lands gently on Louis’ back. “That’s good, too.”

Louis lets his eyes wander uselessly. He searches for something to say and lands on, “thank you,” at last. Papi’s hand presses harder on his back and Louis turns his face away, ashamed because he hadn’t even lasted three hours back at the prison without Papi. He was so helpless, so useless--

“Hey.”

Louis turns further, facing the wall.

“Hey,” Papi says again, with force. “Look at me.”

Louis huffs out a pained laugh. He turns back and gestures loosely at his face. “I can’t.”

Papi’s hand starts rubbing a hesitant circle along his spine. “I’ll get your glasses back.”

Louis normally wouldn’t doubt the merit of that vow, but he can still hear the dry rasp in Papi’s voice, can feel the fever-heat radiating off of him. 

“You should be in the infirmary,” he says.

“What?” Papi sounds odd, a particular blend of anger and confusion. 

“I’m grateful,” Louis says. But he doesn’t sound grateful--he sounds defeated. “I am. But you’re still ill. You need--”

“You need to be quiet,” Papi counters coldly. The comfort of his hand pulls away from Louis’ back and Louis knows he deserves that. He turns his face away again and listens as Papi lets out a long breath, like he’s trying to empty his lungs entirely. “Shit.”

They sit quietly. Louis squeezes his hands together in an attempt to get them to stop shaking. He jerks, surprised, when one of Papi’s warm hands settles over them. 

“Turnkey’s here,” Papi says softly, and Louis nods. He doesn’t need his glasses to remove his filthy boots, but his hands twitch badly enough that it takes him longer than it should. He’s glad that Papi doesn’t offer to help, and even more grateful when Papi doesn’t ask why he keeps his work shirt and pants on. 

Then they’re locked in for the night, side by side as always, and Louis has to bite his lip to keep from apologizing. Apologize for what? He’s not sure, but the desire is so strong that he breaks the nearly-healed scab on his lip and tastes the coppery tang of blood. 

_Useless,_ he thinks, head throbbing. _I’m useless._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to send out a huge **thank you** to everyone who has commented on this story and provided feedback so far, it's been very encouraging to hear your thoughts. It's really nice to know I'm not just sending this out into the void ♡ we may be a small fandom but you guys are seriously the best!


	4. Quatre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for explicit depictions sexual assault.
> 
> If you'd like to avoid it, scroll down to the notes at the end of the chapter once you see ✦ used as a divider instead of ✧

They both rise reluctantly in the morning. Henri manages to sleep for a few hours but he can’t resist the compulsion to check that Dega is still beside him each time he startles awake from some dark dream. Drained from his illness and bruised from the fight the night before, he suffers in a different way than Dega, who is near-blind without his glasses and quaking with anxiety from the moment his eyes open. 

Henri dresses slowly and doesn’t comment on the fact that Dega stays seated on the concrete until they’ve no other choice but to leave the barracks. He can’t imagine how the smaller man is feeling in that moment. Helpless, certainly, and clearly very afraid. Henri’s eager to get him alone so that they can talk but a part of him is also dreading the possibilities of that conversation, because he doesn’t know what he’ll do if Dega breaks down on him.

The last thing either of them need is to give Celier another reason to pick at Dega.

Henri pushes the thought away and leads his friend out into the sweltering morning sun by the forearm. Dega says nothing. His eyes jump skittishly as they make their way to Route Zero and Henri begins to realize the true extent of Dega’s vision impairment--Dega had never complained about it, had never told Henri exactly how blind he is without his spectacles. He flinches at shadows and any sudden movement from the herd of men marching around them, and Henri resists the temptation to tell him to just close his eyes. Somehow he doesn’t think Dega would find that any more calming.

✧ ✧ ✧

They don’t get the chance to talk until their first break.

Henri steers Dega firmly, his free hand at the ready to steady him if he stumbles, and together they tuck themselves away from the others near a pile of planks. Celier catches his eye and begins a purposeful approach, likely wanting to check in Henri after his stay in the infirmary but Henri shakes his head. For a moment he thinks Celier will ignore the warning, but the bigger man only stares, shrugs, and settles down on the track with an unpleasant look on his face. 

Henri turns back to Dega, who appears to be studying the dirt. Henri knows it’s nothing more than an abstract smudge to him.

“So,” he says, but he doesn’t know where to start and he lets the word hang heavily between them.

Dega dips his head like a child expecting a reprimand. 

“Want to tell me what happened?”

“Not really.” Dega’s voice is steady. His hands are not. They fidget and clench and never seem to settle. 

“Dega--”

“How much did you see?”

Henri considers the question. He answers honestly. “Not much. I saw that prick pinning you and I went for him.”

Dega turns slowly and stares vaguely in his direction. “Are you alright? I didn’t think to ask last night. Did--”

“I’m fine, Dega.”

“Good.”

“Are you?”

“Yes, but I should tell you--they didn’t get the money--”

Henri frowns. “I know. You said that last night.”

“Yes, but...” Dega hesitates, turning his face away. “Are we alone?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure?”

“Dega--”

“I don’t have it.”

Henri sucks in a quick breath. He stares at the side of Dega’s sullen face and can’t think of how to phrase his question any more kindly than, “what the fuck does that mean?”

Dega winces. “I hid it. I don’t have it.”

“Why--”

“I knew--or, I’d guessed. I tried to ask, the night before, if you could take it, just for a while but--you were so ill. And then you collapsed the next day. I knew that they would come when you weren’t there to protect me. After you were taken to the infirmary, I hid it.”

Henri processes that quietly, biting down on frustration and pity in equal measures. “Did anyone see you hide it?”

Dega can’t see clearly but that doesn’t stop him from sending Henri a withering look. “Of course not. I was careful.”

“Okay.” Henri’s unable to keep an edge of anxiety out of his voice. Dega looks abashed and turns away again, and Henri wonders if he misunderstands the reason he’s concerned. 

“I hid it near a tree I was sure I’d remember, off the track, near the section we were working on last week--”

“Dega--”

“There’s a beam that’s warped. It more curved than the others, it’s practically an ‘s’. You’ll know it when you see it,” Dega presses on quickly. “Head straight into the brush behind it--there’s a young tree with white flowers and little round fruits. It’s the only one around--”

“Why are you talking like I’ll be the one to go get it?” The question comes off harsher than he meant and Dega reacts as though he’s been struck. 

“I’m sorry. I know it’s not ideal, Papi. It’s the best I could come up with.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Of course I’d retrieve it if I could, but without my glasses… it will look suspicious if we both go into the forest together. They might think we’re running. Just act like you’re going to use the restroom, the tree isn’t far from the track--”

Henri grabs hold of Dega’s arm and squeezes until he shuts up. “I meant, why are you talking like you won’t be around to get it yourself?”

“Just in case, Papi.”

“Just in case of _what_? I told you I would protect you. That’s our deal, remember?” Henri doesn’t know why he’s so angry. He knows that Dega is scared. He doesn’t blame him for preparing for the worst. And yet--

“I’m not doubting you,” Dega denies, his face turned as far away from Henri as possible. His voice is small and as uncertain as Henri has ever heard it. “It’s safer this way.”

Henri drops Dega’s wrist and rubs angrily at his own face. Dega’s not wrong. He knows he’s not wrong. So why does it upset him so much? 

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” he promises quietly, after he’s had a moment to calm his pounding head. 

“Papi,” Dega admonishes.

“You’re going to be fine.”

“Yes, well, just in case I’m not--now you know where your money is.”

“ _Our_ money,” Henri corrects petulantly. 

“Papi--”

“I’m not saying you didn’t do the right thing. But don’t talk like that.” When Dega doesn’t reply, Henri lightly rocks their shoulders together. “The money is important,” he admits slowly. “But it’s just a means to an end.”

Dega blinks his big eyes, clearly confused. “Well, yes, but--”

“You’re my friend.”

Dega’s eyes grow impossibly wider. Whether it’s from exhaustion or terror or because his naked eyes are easier to read without his glasses, Henri can see Dega’s surprise soften into wonder.

“Papi,” he says, then seems to be struck speechless. 

“We’re going to get through this.” Henri rests his hand hesitantly on Dega’s back, and Dega leans into him, slumping as though abruptly drained of all strength. “We’re both going to get through this.”

✧ ✧ ✧

The trek back to the prison is worse than the walk down had been that morning. Henri and Dega are both worn ragged from the Route and Henri has to keep a firm hand on his friend to prevent him from bumping blindly into the other men as they march. 

With little else to do but put one foot in front of the other and steer Dega, Henri lets his thoughts wander. The incident the night before had been a near thing, but he and Dega had made it through a difficult few days with their francs and their lives intact, and he counts that as a win. He’s further heartened by the fact that a half day’s rest in the infirmary had turned the tide on his fever--he’ll only get stronger with a bit of food and a decent night’s sleep.

It also helps to know that Caimán will be licking his wounds for a few days to come.

Henri’s managed to avoid thinking too hard about the almost-disaster, but now his thoughts flow freely back to it. He had known that they’d gotten lucky, that although Henri had had to wait longer than he’d have liked for an escort out of the hospital he had made it in time. He just hadn’t realized _how_ lucky they’d been.

Caimán had gone for Dega’s money. He had gotten Dega alone and he’d been expecting Dega to have the capsule. Henri imagines Caimán had cornered Dega and threatened him for it, that Dega had refused and that Caimán hadn’t been happy, but Henri hadn’t thought about how things would have played out after that if he hadn’t shown up. Armed with new information, Henri has to wonder what Caimán would have done once he realized Dega didn’t _have_ the francs.

He feels cold at the thought. 

Caimán’s unpredictable, dangerous, and still nursing a hell of a grudge. Henri’s even come to wonder if it’s really even _about_ the money anymore so much as it’s about Caimán’s ego. Henri knows he wants revenge, but how far would he go to slake his thirst for it? While Henri doesn’t doubt that Caimán would take pleasure in hurting Dega to get at him, he doesn’t think the other man would kill Dega and risk decapitation.

But Caimán’s malice runs deep, and that hatred makes him stupid.

Henri’s thoughts automatically bleed into the unhelpful but irresistible territory of _what if?_ What if Henri hadn’t shown up in time to put Caimán on the ground and drag Dega away? He thinks that _if_ Caimán kept a level head, he might settle for breaking Dega’s jaw, or worse, his fingers, and Henri feels sick at the thought of Dega’s hands warped and crippled, unable to hold a pencil.

And if Caimán lost his temper? 

It’s not difficult to imagine him unintentionally going too far, because Dega isn’t exactly a _delicate_ man, but Henri knows firsthand how hard Caimán can hit. Henri grips Dega a little tighter when he pictures finding him beaten to death behind the barracks, and Dega hesitates a half step to look at him curiously. Henri ignores the glance--he’s not about to share his unhappy thoughts. But Dega suddenly starts walking a step closer, as though to comfort or reassure him, and Henri feels a pang of fondness at the clueless gesture.

Henri can blame it on exhaustion, or on his lingering fever, but he sinks into that fondness and he turns it over in his mind. He can admit that his protectiveness of Dega has bloomed beyond that of a simple financial transaction. They’ve grown close and Henri can’t bring himself to regret that, not even when Dega sometimes seems to go out of his way to piss Henri off. And while he’s not sure that there was any particular moment that Dega had gone from a burden to a friend, he’s a little shaken at how easy it is to welcome that sensation. 

For better or worse, he chalks it up to the power of simple human connection. 

Henri had needed someone. It could have been anyone--it might have been Julot, or Celier, or even Guittou. It most definitely could have been the man that had died at Tribouillard’s hands that first night on the ship. And Julot had told Henri about that pale, nervous creature too, because Julot had a big mouth. Information was his power and he wielded it with little discretion, had offered it up to Henri with no expectation of anything except for friendship in return. Henri had absorbed it all with a hungry ear, listening intently as Julot described the infamous forger, Louis Dega, and William Galgani, heir to France’s fourth largest shipping company.

Galgani may have been a mouse of man as a prisoner, but prior to his conviction he’d been a stuck-up socialite who had turned a tidy profit by letting the mob traffick heroin through two of the shipping yards he managed for his father. Julot had been smug when he’d described Galgani tearfully confessing to everything within an hour of being arrested, and he’d been careful to point out that Galgani had hidden his face with shame at the trial. 

Louis Dega, on the other hand, hadn’t been caught so much as he’d been betrayed. Julot had gleefully laid out the story as he’d heard it: someone in Dega’s inner circle had tipped off the local authorities in Marseille, and it hadn’t taken long for Dega to get careless enough to fall for a set-up. When he’d been arrested, he’d kept his mouth shut and his head up, and in the end he’d been convicted solely on the testimony of the rat who had sold him out.

Ultimately, when it came to partnering up both Dega and Galgani were easy pickings. It was only a matter of deciding who to approach with his proposal. Julot, as though sensing Henri’s thoughts, had given his unsolicited two cents on the solemn walk down to the ship--Galgani would happily tuck under someone’s protective arm with no regard for the cost, but while Dega had a reputation for being a stubborn prick he knew when to shut the fuck up. _Pros and cons,_ Julot had chirped, _you gotta weigh the pros and cons, my friend._

Henri still thinks of Galgani sometimes. He can close his eyes and picture him in the dark, blank-faced with his guts hanging out, and in his crueler moments he wonders if he’d made the right choice in approaching Dega. Galgani probably would have accepted Henri’s offer of protection with gratitude. He probably wouldn’t argue or pick fights with Celier or try to tell Henri what to do.

But Henri had chosen Dega. 

He’d chosen the weak, senseless forger that stumbles with him through the prison gates without complaint after a long day of hard labor--the same fool who had lunged at Caimán when Henri had taken his knife across the ribs that day in the showers, who had tried to help Henri despite knowing that he didn’t have a prayer of overpowering their attacker.

Henri wonders if that’s what Julot had been hinting at when he’d described both men the way that he had--he’d been trying to convey the value of a man’s _spirit_. 

Dega’s sigh of relief brings Henri back to the present as they’re led into the interior court of the prison, where they line up and stand in silence until Santini dismisses them to waste the rest of their evening however they see fit. Henri’s glad to be back too; he’s tired and sore and filthy, and he aims an unhappy frown up at the clouds, which had gathered quickly over the last hour but now hang low and stagnant in the sky. There’s no wind to stir the air and he finds himself sweating as much as he had out in the sun on the Route, which he thinks is unfair. All he wants to do is make it to the showers and wash the grime from his body, and then he wants to sleep for a week.

But they barely make it past the interior yard before Dega’s hand grips at his wrist and tugs. Henri understands the message. He pulls Dega aside and they huddle in the slim walkway between two storage buildings.

“Papi, we need to talk.”

Henri frowns, bracing a hand against the wall for support as the world sways for a moment. He realizes momentum had been the main thing keeping him upright. “Can it wait?” He turns his head and shoots a longing look in the direction of the showers.

“I know you’re not feeling well, but this is important. We might not get another chance to speak alone tonight.”

Henri waits, expectant, but Dega’s squinting around as though he’s afraid someone will interrupt. Knowing Dega can’t see worth a damn, Henri surveys their surroundings for him and finds that they’ve got about as much privacy as they’ll ever have.

“We’re alone,” he murmurs, prompting Dega to lick his lips and nod.

“It’s about Guittou.”

That gets Henri’s attention. He studies the look on Dega’s face and feels unease prickle the skin at the back of his neck. “What happened?”

Dega hums out a breath, like he’s thinking over what he wants to say and how he should say it. “I met the other man, the one that’s put him up to it--to watching us, following us around.”

Henri’s taken aback. Other man? Had Dega mentioned that? “What are you talking about?” He steps closer to loom over Dega. Dega looks up at him with his big, blurry eyes and doesn’t bother pretending to be intimidated.

“Guittou. He said that there was someone that I should meet.”

“The ‘alternative’ he offered you,” Henri realizes. 

“Yes. He said that there were other men who would protect me after you leave, and he insisted on making an introduction.”

“And?” Henri asks impatiently. His head pounds and he resists the urge to shake Dega, to demand to know why he’d left that detail out. 

“He’s in solitary. That’s why he had Guittou running messages for him. I don’t know what he offered Guittou, whether it’s money or protection, but Guittou seemed frightened of him.”

Dega slumps against the wall and Henri finds his anger softening at the exhaustion evident in his face. 

“He said to call him Mr. Cormier. He said he works for a man in Paris, and that this man wants to be my benefactor.”

Henri stares. He doesn’t feel the sun or the sweat running down his back anymore. “Your benefactor,” he repeats slowly.

Dega nods and wipes his hand across his forehead. “Someone who wants to make use of my skill set.”

“What else?” Henri asks sharply. “What else did this Cormier tell you?”

“Not much--”

“Why is he in solitary?”

“I don’t know.”

“How does he know Guittou?”

“I don’t know that either,” Dega admits. Henri’s distantly surprised that Dega’s not angry at the interrogation. Normally Dega would be spitting quick retorts back at him by now, irked by the tone that Henri uses when he reprimands him or pries for information. But he only huddles closer to the wall, closer to where Henri’s still bracing his hand, like he wants to fold in under Henri and disappear. 

“What else did he say?” Henri asks again.

Dega closes his eyes. “That he will protect me once he’s released from solitary, until his employer can finalize my appeal.”

Henri’s brow drops. “So someone’s paying to have you released and brought back to Paris,” he mutters, thinking out loud. “So that you can work for him once you get there.”

Dega nods and opens his eyes. They search Henri’s face, but without his glasses Henri knows he’s just a dark blot against a bright sky. “I told him that you and I already have an arrangement. He said Guittou told him about that. He wasn’t concerned. He knows I’m not going with you when you run.”

Henri’s stomach drops.

“He wouldn’t tell me anything else. He said--he just said to wait. That his confinement was an ‘expected setback’, and that he would be out soon.”

“He didn’t say anything else?”

“No.”

“He didn’t give you a name for this _benefactor_?”

“No, Papi--”

Henri pushes for more until Dega puts his hands in his hair and sighs.

"Papi, please. I don't know. I don't know anything more than you do at this point."

Henri presses at his mouth to keep a curse inside. "And you’re sure that's all he said?" 

"Yes. That's all he said--someone will arrange for my release, on the condition that I partner with them when I get to France."

"Who would fund that?" Henri asks hoarsely. "Who would go through the trouble of having you brought back?"

Dega glances up and his face is deceptively blank. His unfocused eyes flash a warning that Henri sees but doesn't understand.

"There are other forgers in Paris," Henri clarifies.

Dega juts his chin up with a challenge. "You're right," he retorts dryly. "Who would bother with me?"

Henri frowns. "Dega--"

"No, you're right," Dega snaps, "I've probably made more money with one good forgery than you've made in your _life_ but, yes, you're right--there are other forgers in Paris."

"Is that really what you’re going to focus on?" Henri demands. "This isn’t about your goddamn ego."

Dega's eyes cut away, but Henri gets the impression it's more to refrain from saying something he’ll regret than it is a sign of submission. "I might have expected you'd be relieved,” he says after a moment, so quietly Henri nearly misses it.

"What the hell does that mean?"

"This is an opportunity, Papi. A way out."

"Dega--"

"We both know you're not taking me with you," Dega interrupts, face flushing with anger. "You know what will--when you're gone--"

"Don't be stupid," Henri says. He steps in closer and they’re practically pressed together, and even Henri’s not sure if it's meant to comfort or unnerve the smaller man. "Whoever is behind this… if they pull your appeal off, they'll _own_ you, Dega."

"Being owned is better than being dead," Dega replies venomously.

Henri can only stare, his heart thumping angrily in his throat. He considers telling Dega that he’s been planning to take him along for a while, but Henri knows the sentiment would fall flat. He can see it clearly in his head--Dega would assume that Henri was only worried about the francs, and that he was placating Dega with talk of escaping together to avoid getting cut out. He thinks back to each time Dega had been quick to reassure Henri that he’d get his money, even if Henri didn’t keep his end of their deal by keeping Dega alive, and it makes him feel sick.

 _He thinks I think so little of him._ Henri knows this in his gut, just as he knows his desire to unveil his plan to Dega now is a bad move. It would only make Dega trust him less, so he shakes his head and he says nothing.

Dega watches him with wounded eyes, and the disappointment Henri sees there stabs sharp as they walk to the showers in silence. 

A guard lets them in with a small group of other men and they strip quietly. Henri doesn’t miss the quick, hesitant glances that Dega has begun sending him, doesn’t miss the way he opens his mouth and then closes it again as though he can’t figure out what to say. Henri tries to calm the unsettled pounding of his pulse, and he watches Dega fold his clothing before approaching the showers, moving cautiously to avoid stumbling. Henri follows and steps under the water with relish. 

He scours away the dirt and the sweat and then he lets his anger go with it.

“You’re good at what you do,” Henri tells him after a few minutes. He’s already watching closely so he doesn’t miss the spasm of surprise that crosses Dega’s face. Then Dega blinks and it’s gone. He rubs the water from his eyes and turns to Henri, and because Henri knows he can’t see the apology on his face he reaches out and lays a gentle hand on Dega’s shoulder.

“You’re good,” Henri says again, his voice soft with affection, “I know that. You’re goddamn famous for your skill, Dega. I’m not trying to say they could get someone as good as you, I’m just wondering why it wouldn’t be worth it settle for someone more attainable. They’ve got to be really rich or really powerful to pull this off.”

Dega doesn’t pull away like Henri expects. He stands as though he’s held fast by Henri’s light touch and he allows the water to sluice down his face. His eyes rest somewhere near the tattoo at the base of Henri’s throat. “I understand that,” Dega says in his low rumble of a voice. “But…”

“But it’s a way out,” Henri finishes. 

“Yes.”

Henri tightens his grip on Dega’s shoulder in a way that he hopes is comforting, and then he lets his hand fall away. He scrubs the water from his hair and tries to see it from Dega’s point of view. 

“I get it,” he admits after a few moments. “But you need to be careful, Dega. There’s something off about all of this.”

“I realize that. I haven’t agreed to anything.”

“What?”

“I did not agree to the proposal and I’m not certain that I will. Clara’s still working on my appeal. I may not even need this Mr. Cormier or his mysterious employer.”

Henri is surprised at the intensity of his relief. “That’s good.”

“It’s just that… I didn’t get the impression that I was being _asked_ , Papi.”

“Did he threaten you?” Henri demands quickly, temper pulsing back to life at the implication.

“No, he didn’t threaten me. I don’t think he felt that he needed to.” Dega draws himself inward, eyes distant. “And that almost scares me more than if he had.”

“Dega,” Henri starts, but finds that his throat is tight and no words rise up to interrupt the silence that follows. He stares down at Dega curling in on himself under the slow drip of water, and he feels something twist in his chest. “Hey, listen.”

Dega tilts his head but doesn’t look at him.

“If your lawyer can’t pull your appeal off,” Henri says slowly, realizing that he hadn’t even lasted half an hour on his resolve to not tell Dega about the plan, “you’ll come with me.”

Dega jerks his head to stare at Henri in astonishment. “What?”

“If your appeal fails, I’ll take you with me. I’ve been thinking it over for a while.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Dega demands. Henri tries not to smile, strangely charmed that Dega can sound so churlish while looking so hopeful.

“Because I don’t make promises I can’t keep. But I am promising you this now--if you’re out of options, we’ll go together. I won’t leave you here to rot, Dega.”

Dega stares up at him as though he’s afraid to trust in that vow. Henri watches him back and he’s struck by the color of Dega’s eyes in that moment. Deep green and gray, like the sea after a storm. Reassurances warm Henri’s tongue and he spares a thought for spilling them, for setting Dega at ease, but realization comes over him like a cold shadow. He glances up to find that the four other men that had entered the showering courtyard with them have slipped away. 

“Papi--” Dega murmurs, sensing the shifting atmosphere, but Henri ignores him. He slowly turns his head and feels his gut coil up like a serpent in his belly. 

“Papillon,” a man greets, taking a measured step closer. He’s bigger than Henri and he’s still dressed in his work clothes, his face slick with sweat and a wild eagerness. For a moment Henri doesn’t recognize him, and then he abruptly does.

“Dega,” Henri mutters, lifting an arm as though to shield the smaller man. “Stay behind me.”

Dega doesn’t reply. Henri feels a tentative hand touch his back, a silent reassurance, and Henri heaves in air through his nose in anticipation of a fight. He stares down the man missing a chunk out of his ear but searches the periphery of his vision for Caimán’s other goons. 

A sharp noise from Dega has him whirling around, and Henri effortlessly crushes his knuckles against a second man’s cheekbone. The man’s head whips back but he’s still got Dega in a hard grip. Henri’s on him again in a flash, arm curling back for another hit, but wide hands grab him from behind and pull. 

Henri throws his head back and takes satisfaction in the _crack_ and groan of pain when he makes contact with his assailant’s face. Henri swings his elbow and catches the man somewhere in the ribs. He starts to turn, ready to put him on the ground, but he can see Dega writhing in the corner of his eye, struggling with the man trying to pull him away between the showering posts. 

Henri loses himself for a moment, consumed in the familiar focus of a fistfight, and he has the second man down and Dega free with a few solid hits. He sucks in air, chest heaving, skin tingling, and he throws himself at the man whose ear he’d bitten half off weeks ago. The man is prepared for him and they grapple with one another until Henri slams his forehead against the man’s already bleeding nose. The guttural screech that follows has Henri showing his teeth in a violent smile. 

“Papi--” 

He hears Dega cry out a warning, and he turns in time to receive a punch to the temple. He staggers and then straightens up, cursing himself for taking his eyes off of the second man for so long. But as he squares his shoulders and prepares himself he realizes that a third man has joined the fray. 

_Fuck_ , comes a lightning quick jolt of fear, because his vision’s swimming from that hit and he’s lost sight of Dega and he knows El Caimán is somewhere--somewhere--

A boot slams into Henri’s back and he stumbles forward into another practiced hit from the third man. He gasps in oxygen and swings. It’s a sloppy punch but it catches someone in the throat and they make an ugly spluttering sound and retreat. There’s no rush of relief though, because there are still two others, still Caimán to worry about, and Henri’s already lightheaded from fever and pain.

He takes a fist to the ribs and he has the wits to understand that this is not a fight he can win--not like this, not in his condition. He gives up on trying and lurches away, staggering like he’s drunk, and tries to find Dega instead. They just need to get out into the open--

One of the men lunge at his back and then Henri’s on his belly in the mud. He’s pinned. An involuntary hiss bubbles up from his chest at the pressure of the man’s weight. He wriggles, trying to get free, but a tooth-shaking punch catches him in the back of the head.

✦ ✦ ✦

Words are mumbled and buzz angrily in the air around him, but their meaning escapes Henri. He groans and tries to lift his head but the man on top of him presses a forearm down on the back of his neck. Henri chokes for a moment but then the arm lets up and a hand grips his short hair instead. His neck twinges in protest as his head is lifted and angled sharply to the side. 

His mouth goes dry.

Caimán’s got Dega by the throat. He’s saying something, his face distorted with animosity, and he gives Dega a rough shake and then throws him to the ground.

Henri’s blood pounds in his head. He struggles to free himself again but it’s useless, and he’s helpless to do anything but watch as Caimán slaps Dega hard across the face when the forger tries to rise. 

“Stop,” Henri snarls. “Stop!”

Caimán pauses to spare Henri a hateful glance, and then he’s struggling with Dega again and cursing. Dega surprises them all by twisting and throwing a clumsy punch. Henri’s heart thumps a sickening beat as Caimán strikes Dega in the face again and then maneuvers him like a ragdoll, wrapping an arm around his neck from behind. Dega wheezes. Caimán pulls him back, squeezing his arm tight, and begins searching between Dega’s legs with his other hand.

Dega struggles to hold in a strangled noise and Henri thrashes, curses, spits, because he knows what’s happening. But fighting is useless--he only succeeds in earning himself another blow to the back of the head and his ears are ringing louder now. This mercifully muffles the world around him, and he almost can't hear Dega’s gasp of agony as Caimán worms a second finger in.

He sees Dega's stomach muscles convulse, like he's fighting the intrusion from inside, and Henri wants to scream at him to lie down and take it, because he knows Dega won't survive if he fights. _Just let it happen, it’s okay, just let it happen,_ he prays in his head, panting into the mud.

"Where is it?" Caimán demands. Dega goes still, every muscle taut as Caimán digs angrily into him. "Huh? Where is it, you sniveling bitch!"

"It's gone," Dega exhales weakly, voice raw.

Caimán's arm goes still.

"I--It's gone, it's spent--we bribed--"

"You're lying," Caimán snarls. The arm around Dega's neck constricts.

"I swear," Dega lies, gasping desperately for air. "I swear."

Caimán suddenly looks uncertain. Henri holds his breath, heart in his throat, as the man's eyelids twitch with thought. Henri’s speculation on Caimán’s temper rushes back to him like some dreadful prophecy, and he can only hope that this man is as terrified of the guillotine as the rest of them. 

Caimán looks up slowly and meets Henri’s eyes with hollow fury.

"Check him." 

For a moment Henri's confused, then he realizes that Caimán's addressing the man that has him pressed down against the ground. The man obeys and Henri doesn't fight it. It’s painful but the man is hesitant, unsure, and he only gives Henri a cursory single-fingered examination before shaking his head. Henri grits his teeth and meets Caimán's stunned eyes with a challenge.

"No," Caimán says, but it's obvious he believes them now. 

Henri decides that he's going to commend Dega for his quick-thinking deception, for having the foresight to hide the money in the first place. El Caimán will be furious, but he won’t risk the warden’s wrath by killing them.

His stomach wrenches when Caimán releases Dega only to turn him and viciously backhand him across the face. "Cunt!" Caimán bellows. He strikes Dega again and Dega's head snaps back with the force of the blow. "You _stupid cunt!_ "

"Stop," Henri tries to cry out, but it's hardly a sigh of air--the man holding him is crushing him to the ground in earnest now and Henri can't fill his lungs. He tosses himself from side to side, trying to lurch free, but he's held fast by someone who has the advantage of nearly a hundred pounds and a lot of leverage.

Dega's split lip has reopened and blood smears across his mouth like a woman's lipstick. He groans weakly as Caimán seizes him by the hair. Caimán hisses something in his ear, and Henri redoubles his hopeless thrashing as Caimán's free hand lowers to tug his half-hard cock out of his pants.

Caimán's still snarling something, and Henri doesn't understand--it's not French, or English--but the sentiment is obvious. He settles his body over Dega until he practically smothers the forger down into the dirt. Henri watches, helpless, as Caimán spits into his hand and slicks his cock. His other hand fists hard in Dega’s hair and he jerks his wrist, exposing Dega’s neck. Henri can see the terrorized throb of Dega’s pulse in his throat.

Dega doesn't beg, doesn't sob, and some distant part of Henri is glad that his friend can still cling to that last dignity. Henri closes his eyes as though that could block out Dega’s agonized scream, as though it could dull Caimán's angry grunt of satisfaction.

"Open your eyes," Caimán barks breathlessly. "Open your _fucking eyes_ , Papillon, or I'll cut his throat open, and then I'll fuck that, too."

Henri squeezes his eyes shut all the more firmly, as though he could press the darkness in, and then obeys. His gut curls somewhere up in his chest at the sight of El Caimán looming over Dega, his fingers still snaked in the long hair at the crown of Dega’s head.

Henri can't bring himself to look at Dega.

"Make sure he watches," Caimán growls at his lackey, and the man on top of Henri shifts his weight to ensure he's still pinned securely in the mud. A hand grabs him by the back of the neck, keeping his face angled toward Caimán. Henri can feel the man's erection pressed into his hip.

"I'll kill you," Henri seethes.

Caimán shows no sign of hearing. He jerks Dega's hair again and despite his best efforts, Dega can’t bite back the small noises of pain anymore. He begins to cry out hoarsely at each movement and Henri tells himself that it can't go on--a guard will see, someone will put a stop to it. When no one comes he tries to distract himself from Dega's torment with thoughts of vengeance, but he can’t ignore Caimán’s lewd grunting. He spews filth into Dega’s ear, using French now because he wants Dega to understand.

"My bitch," Caimán rasps. "My little _bitch_. Fuck!"

He yanks so hard at Dega’s hair that Henri's certain Caimán's fist will come away with dark clumps. Caimán’s hips stutter and then he goes still. He's panting, soaked in sweat, and for a moment he seems disoriented. Then he gives a last cruel jerk of his hips and Dega groans like a wounded animal when he pulls out.

Henri's throat closes up at the sound. _But it's over, it’s done,_ he thinks. His eyes are dry and burning. He still can't look Dega in the face.

Caimán exhales slowly and then Henri braces himself, muscles coiling to spring at the first opportunity, and Caimán looks his way. He’s unfazed by the malice in Henri’s eyes. His expression is calculating as he stoops to retrieve Henri’s discarded shirt, and he holds Henri's gaze as he cleans his cock with it.

 _I'll kill you,_ Henri's blood sings, _I'm going to **fucking kill you**_.

"Bissett," Caimán calls to one of the men standing somewhere behind them, never breaking eye contact with Henri. _This is what you reap,_ the bitter twist of Caimán’s mouth suggests, _this is your reparation to me._

Henri feels the weight above him shift and immediately misunderstands. He expects that he's about to be let up, that Caimán will turn and swagger away with the knowledge that he's asserted his dominance, that he’s gotten the only thing left he thinks is worth taking from them. But the man on top of Henri only adjusts his grip. Henri sucks in air between his teeth as the man with the bitten ear shuffles quickly forward, his nose and mouth still caked with blood.

Henri's thoughts are muddled and he still doesn’t get it, doesn’t understand until Bissett drops to his knees behind Dega's prone body and fondles himself through his linen pants. Henri’s blood goes cold.

Caimán says something in his foreign tongue and the other men laugh, breathless, heady with excitement. The man pinning Henri lets his grip loosen as he watches Bissett pull his stubby prick out and pump it in his fist. 

Henri's thoughts white out. 

He bucks viciously, and he hurls himself at Caimán when the other man is caught off guard and thrown off of his back. He lands a bone-crunching punch and Caimán goes down--Henri follows him to the ground, hand fisted in the collar of Caimán's shirt. He brings his fist down again and it feels like something gives in his hand.

His arm swings back once more but he's wrestled to the ground before he can bring it down on Caimán's face for a third time. Henri writhes with witless rage as he struggles with Bissett. He rolls free and slams his elbow against the man’s chest. 

Bissett goes down and Henri’s heart thumps a savage song, greedy for the violence. He staggers to his knees and almost turns in time to see the heel of Caimán's boot connect with the side of his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ✦ If you skipped: Caiman makes another attempt for the money and reacts badly when he doesn't get it; Papi gets the shit kicked out of him when he fights back.
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway! Things don't necessarily get easier from here on out but this will likely be the worst of the explicit material. It isn't my intention to glorify sexual violence but I thought it would be okay to maintain some grittiness, and the general consensus in the comments was not to censor graphic scenes. But yeah, just keep in mind that the "Hurt/Comfort" tag makes good use of _both_ of those terms. We're in the midst of Hurt but Comfort times will come!
> 
> Lastly, thank you again to all of you who have commented! It's embarrassingly effective motivation--I didn't think I'd be posting four chapters in two weeks, but here we are. Seeing your interest and reading your thoughts on this story definitely makes me more excited to write it!


	5. Cinq

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends and welcome to another chapter.
> 
> It only took getting to about thirty thousand words but I am confirmed for Certified Dumbass. I've been referring to Papi as "Henri" during his point-of-view scenes, and Dega as "Dega" during his own point-of-view scenes and it's taken me this long to realize how weird that is. I've gone back and changed previous chapters, and Dega will be referred to as "Louis" during his scenes from here on out!
> 
> Warning for implied non-consensual contact.

Henri hides away in a comfortable haze of nothingness. Light beyond his eyelids and the low rumble of nearby voices threaten to drag him up from oblivion and he resists, trying to curl deeper inside of himself. But then someone laughs and the right side of his head starts to ache.

He reluctantly peels his sticky eyelids open and grimaces. 

There’s something about the sun in French Guiana--it’s as though the very light is corrupt, tinged tangerine, and it pierces his tired eyes without mercy.

“Now I see why you wanted out so badly,” an unfamiliar voice informs him, and the man’s tone is so full of wounded contempt that Henri is taken aback. He tries to turn to look but his head swims and he closes his eyes against the nauseating sway. “Begged your way out of here just to get into a brawl.”

It doesn’t make much sense, but Henri can’t think clearly enough to argue. 

“Where the hell am I?” he asks after a long moment of gathering his strength, and it feels like he’s been gargling gravel.

“You’re back in the infirmary, Mr. Charrière.”

“No--” Henri protests, confused. He’d been… Where had he been? There’s a hole in his memory and it aches like a bruise when he tries to touch it.

“Did you get out just to pick a fight?” the doctor’s asking, voice still dripping with disdain. “I have to say--”

“Where’s Dega?” Henri interrupts, angry in his panic. “Where is he?”

The doctor’s startled for a moment, but he recovers quickly enough. He tries to touch the side of Henri’s head but Henri curls his lip and flinches away. “Don’t touch me,” he warns. 

“I believe you have a head injury, and you seem confused. You need rest.”

“I need--” What? What did he need? Dega was… _Fuck_ , where was he? “I need to find my friend.”

The doctor’s eyebrows raise and Henri would beat the look of bemusement off of his face if he only had the strength to make his arm obey. 

“You were brought in by the guards yesterday evening,” the medic shares, his gaze shifting between Henri’s eyes as though to examine them for something. “No one else was brought in with you.”

“Louis Dega--”

“I don’t know anyone by that name,” the doctor tells him patiently. 

Henri stares hard, breathing fast, trying to find his way through the fog in his mind. 

“My name is Dr. Guibert,” the other man continues. “I need you to answer a few questions. Can you do that for me?”

Henri doesn’t relent his bitter scowl, but the doctor is undaunted. 

“Do you feel the need to vomit?”

Henri narrows his eyes.

“Is your vision blurred?” 

The question strikes him with unexpected force and he remembers that Dega’s glasses--Caiman had--

“Do you hear a ringing sound in your ears?”

Henri groans, struggling to sit up. He can’t stand the look on the doctor’s face, and his anger ramps up right alongside the pain in his head. He finds himself furious at his helplessness. 

“Mr. Charrière--”

“Fuck you!” Henri snarls when a hand reaches out to comfort him.

Dr. Guibert leans away and a pot-bellied turnkey rushes over at the commotion. The doctor turns his head toward the other man but keeps his eyes on Henri. “He’s disoriented,” he assess quietly, like Henri can’t hear him. “Confused. We need to keep him calm.”

Fuck that. Henri may be losing the battle to get himself upright but he can’t stop trying. The world spins sickeningly and he feels his head wobble, as though he’s misplaced every last bone in his neck and he can no longer keep it steady. “Shit--”

He flops his head to the side just in time to avoid throwing up in his own lap.

Someone makes a noise of disgust, and then a warm hand finds its way to his back. Henri smacks it away with startling animosity. “Don’t fucking touch me,” he warns again, but his mouth is sour with stomach acid and his tongue feels bloated and strange.

Someone’s speaking quickly, quietly, and then there’s a sharp pinch in Henri’s neck. He slaps a weak hand over the spot and reels back, startled. It isn’t long before the room starts to spin in a wheel of orange and he closes his eyes.

“It’s okay,” someone’s murmuring. Gentle hands cradle his head. “You’ll be okay.”

“Dega,” Henri answers, relieved. But no--he knows that’s not right. It’s not right because Dega isn’t...

Henri sucks in air and slumps against the pillows.

✧ ✧ ✧

The next time Henri wakes, he opens his eyes at dusk. He lies motionless for a long time and listens to insects hum and chatter somewhere out in the twilight, and he stews in the oppressive stillness of the infirmary. Henri remembers now, and the understanding of what had happened leaves him with a heavy chill in his chest. 

The doctor comes by to check on him before he leaves the prison for the night. He has a home to return to, a place to retreat after a long day of patching up violent convicts and supervising the cleaning of blood and shit, and Henri envies him for that simple luxury. 

“You seem calmer,” Dr. Guibert tells him with approval. Henri doesn’t react when fingers prod gently at the tender skin on his temple, though he is tempted to ask if the imprint of El Caiman’s boot is visible. “How are you feeling?”

“I need you to release me.”

Dr. Guibert’s face immediately twists with anger. “This again?” He shakes his head as if Henri is the sorriest bastard he knows and then makes as if to stand.

Henri’s hand spasms out and he takes the man’s lapel in a death-grip. The doctor goes still, fear widening his eyes, and Henri takes no pleasure in having put it there. 

“I need to leave,” he says, slowly.

Dr. Guibert has more guts than Henri might’ve given him credit for because he shakes his head and levels a pitying frown at him instead of calling out for the guards. “You’re not well enough to leave, Mr. Charrière. This isn’t a simple illness anymore, you have a head injury--”

“You’ve picked a hell of a time to start caring,” Henri snaps, and he takes grim satisfaction that it hits a nerve with Guibert, who regards him with hurt and no small amount of resentment. The doctor’s mouth hangs slightly agape, like he’s going to argue, but then guilt worms its way into his eyes and he can no longer meet Henri’s demanding gaze. 

“I can see that you’re upset,” he says after a moment, his attention fixed where Henri’s still got his fist curled in his white jacket. “But you will not be released until I’m certain that your injury has been adequately addressed.”

Henri pulls in a harsh breath and his hand twists in the fabric, pulling the man closer as he tries to settle on an effective threat.

“You have two options,” the doctor informs him briskly, cutting off Henri’s protest. “You can lie quietly and rest, or we can administer another tranquilizer and you can spend the rest of your time here in restraints.”

Henri’s eyes burn with outrage. He wants to fight, wants to use every trick he knows to bend Guibert’s will to his own, but while he’s dizzy with pain he’s coherent enough to recognize that he’s lost the battle. 

“Shit,” he hisses, and then he lets go.

Guibert recoils out of Henri’s reach and eyes him warily. “Well?”

Henri settles for a glower. The doctor apparently finds that acceptable because he doesn’t call for another needle and he doesn’t pull out any straps. Henri swallows a nasty reply as Guibert stands and adjusts his jacket. For a moment Henri’s certain that the other man is going to say something--another ultimatum, or worse, an apology--but he only slumps his shoulders in defeat and leaves.

Just like that, Henri’s abandoned to his thoughts, and it doesn’t take him long to wish that the doctor had stayed--his mind is gorged with gruesome memories and there’s little he can do to avoid them in the growing dark. 

It’s too much.

He covers his face with an unsteady hand and swallows down a swell of grief.

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis lies awake in an unfamiliar barrack and regulates his breathing. He draws in a slow breath, holds it in his chest, and then sighs it quietly out, hoping that he can trick his body into relaxing.

It’s his second night in El Caiman’s barrack and he’s almost startled by how starkly he feels the difference. Caiman is still withholding his eye glasses, so the room is an ugly but expected blur of nothingness. What makes him twitch is the fact that he isn’t in a corner anymore--he’s pressed between Caiman and a man he’s come to know as Dumont, petrified with the knowledge that any sound, any movement could wake his tormentors.

It makes it a little hard to sleep.

And it’s so terribly strange to be away from Papillon. He’s always in the back of Louis’ mind, hovering in his consciousness like a spectre, and worrying about his friend sometimes helps to draw his thoughts away from his own predicament. Louis tries not to hate himself too much for that--there’s nothing he can do for Papi, no amount of worrying will aid him in recovering, and he thinks Papi wouldn’t mind if he knew that Louis was trying to make his concern useful.

Dumont grunts in his sleep and Louis’ heart kicks like a startled rabbit. 

He swallows hard and wonders if they can hear it, if his fear is audible. But Dumont doesn’t wake from whatever dream has his face twitching with a hideous frown, and Louis slowly unwinds his ever-aching muscles and tries to relax again.

He wonders what the other men think of his arrival--he doesn’t know who he displaced when he was dragged here instead of his own barrack, but no one has commented on the change. In fact, no one seems to care, not even the turnkey who surely doesn’t remember this newcomer, this poor bastard he locks in at night, beaten bloody and quaking with pain and fear. It’s as if everyone has recognized a shift in power between Papillon and El Caiman and this--a transfer of Louis’ _ownership_ \--is the natural conclusion.

It’s dehumanizing. 

Louis tries to take it in stride, and he forces himself to take a queer pleasure in the knowledge he isn’t giving Caiman the reaction that he craves. He retreats into a familiar, quiet place in his mind when Caiman and his men decide to take their frustrations out on him, and he’s proud that he hasn’t pleaded, hasn’t begged, hasn’t broken down in tears yet. 

He doesn’t doubt that he will if Caiman escalates to disfigurement or outright torture, but he instinctively understands that this isn’t about him, it’s about _Papillon_. Caiman wants Papi to bear witness to Louis’ agony, and Louis has to believe that Caiman won’t resort to mutilation or outright murder without him there to watch. Louis knows that Caiman’s nothing less than fixated on the thought because in the rare moments that Caiman speaks to him with anything less than lewd threats, he speaks of Papillon. 

He spits and snarls about Papillon’s stupidity, his cowardice, his weakness. He taunts Louis as he abuses him and he takes pleasure in his suffering, but Louis is only a vessel to hurt Papillon because that is where the heart of Caiman’s animosity has taken root. And it hadn’t come as a surprise once Louis had thought it through--Papi had antagonized Caiman from the offset, had in fact initiated violence with that first good shove, and Caiman now feasts on the rancor that had been born between them in that moment. It isn’t about the money anymore, and it was never about Louis.

And so, in that way, the violence that he endures is merely incidental. 

Louis would laugh about it but he’s too scared to make a sound.

✧ ✧ ✧

Morning comes slowly and Caiman wakes in a volatile mood. He’s rough with Louis before the turnkey arrives, but he hands him someone else’s shirt to clean up with afterward and allows him to eat his morning meal in peace. The fact that he’s even allowing Louis food is a relief. Caiman hadn’t given him anything to eat at all that first day--he'd taken Louis’ rations for his own and said that Louis needed to earn the right to eat, and if it was any less horrifying it would have been funny. And maybe it _is_ funny, in a way. Louis thinks he’s come full circle now--frequent beatings and the occasional withholding of meals are familiar tactics, ones he’d managed to survive throughout his childhood, and he slips back into a shell of numbness like it’s an old and well-worn glove. 

He wraps himself in that numbness now, as Caiman grabs him hard by the arm for stumbling into him on the way out of the barrack, and he doesn’t bother offering up an excuse. Caiman knows that he can’t see without his glasses and that’s exactly why he hasn’t given them back to Louis--it’s one more cruel, pointless demonstration of power and Louis knows better than to protest. 

Satisfied with the meek bow of Louis’ head, Caiman shoves him until Louis collides with someone else. He thinks he recognizes Dumont’s laughter, and Bissett sneers out a joke. Caiman’s men are always close at hand, hovering constantly in the dizzy whirl of color and light, and they take pleasure in reminding Louis of who he belongs to now. And this, too, is about control.

That first, terrible day, Louis had allowed himself to hope that someone would step in. He had reminded himself that Guittou and Cormier were invested in his safety, but if they’re anywhere around Louis does not know it. He thinks that this means that Cormier is still in solitary. A small part of him hopes that Guittou will approach and pass a message, some reminder that this will end, but by the third day Louis has come to understand that Guittou likely hasn’t been given the opportunity. El Caiman is nothing less than possessive with his new _bitch_ \--Louis finds himself constantly corralled by his men, who Louis has come to think of as particularly dumb hounds, and he doesn’t blame Guittou for keeping his distance.

No, Guittou cannot help him, and Louis is unable to entertain the idea of Celier intervening on Papi’s behalf without risking hysterical, sobbing laughter. 

Louis must wait for Papillon.

He has no way of knowing how badly injured he is, or when he will return, but Louis’ determined to be alive and ready when he does make his way back. He has to have faith that that day will come, and sometimes his longing for it is the only thing that stops him from seeking out self-destruction in his weakest moments. And those moments are among the hardest. They find him when he lies awake, aching where he’s been hit or gripped too hard, and they seize him until morning breaks. In those empty hours he thinks he cannot stand to suffer through another day as El Caiman’s plaything. _I’d rather die,_ he decides, but then he remembers Papillon lying motionless in the mud and anger burns at that despair like fire to a husk. 

They had beaten Papillon unconscious, and then Caiman had allowed Louis to crawl, naked and filthy, until he’d found him face down in muck, and he’d grabbed onto Papillon tight, had held him for as long as Caiman had allowed. He’d been dragged away too soon but while he remembers the smell of blood, he’d felt the strong _thump_ of life in Papi’s wrist and knows that he’s alive.

Yes, Papillon’s alive. Alive and aching, just like Louis. 

_Alive, alive, alive_. He whispers it to himself during the long walk to the Route and he takes comfort in it.

✧ ✧ ✧

Route Zero is a different place for Louis under Caiman’s thumb, and it’s another thing that he deliberately chooses to find humor in. No one complains about his lackluster progress with putting rocks in a cart, or when he stops to squeeze the sweat from his shirt for longer than necessary, and or when he stumbles and has to sit and pant in the sun for a moment before hauling himself back to his feet. 

He thinks it must burn at Celier, watching Louis’ already pathetic work ethic deflate to truly trivial levels. He thinks it also must piss Celier off to see El Caiman swaggering victoriously around, as he undoubtedly is, because as much as Celier detests Louis he doesn’t like Caiman much better. Louis’ not sure why they don’t get along--he can honestly find little difference between the two except that one had befriended Papi and the other had made it his mission to see Papi suffer. 

It is because of Celier’s friendship with Papillon that he has to tolerate Louis with gritted teeth, but he knows that Celier sees him as a distraction from their escape plan and hates him for it. In fact, Louis’ nearly certain that with Papi gone Celier must be tempted to act on the opportunity to make him disappear, but in a twisted way Caiman is now his unwitting protector. Because Caiman may relish in Louis’ torment, but he’s not about to let someone else take him away before Papillon is made to witness his suffering.

Louis tries to picture that particular confrontation as he staggerings under the weight of the current batch of rocks. A fistfight between Caiman and Celier--the idea of it alone curls Louis’ lip with grim amusement. Distracted by the question of who would win, he takes an absent step forward and flinches when he collides with the cart. He fills his lungs with a shuddering, tired breath and summons the strength to lift and push the rocks over the brim. That task done, he takes a the time to shake out his quivering arms and catch his breath.

His quiet moment is immediately interrupted and he startles when a wide, hot hand connects with the side of head. Fingers snake into his hair and pull, and Louis desperately tries to bury himself away in his mind as Caiman leads him around the side of the cart. Louis likes to pretend that he doesn’t know he can differentiate El Caiman from the others, but he knows him all the same. Caiman’s touch, his smell, they’re seared into his brain like a cattle brand.

Caiman suddenly yanks hard, pulling Louis to a stop, and Louis can only squint and keep trying to hollow his thoughts out. He doesn’t wonder why he’s been dragged to the relative privacy of the far side of the cart. He tells himself that doesn’t even need to care--he just finds that comfortably numb place in his head and he settles in.

A light slap to his jaw brings him back and he sways, skittish, and stares bug-eyed at the Caiman-shaped silhouette in front of him.

“Pay attention,” El Caiman grouses. “Don’t think I don’t know when you do that.”

Louis doesn’t ask what he means. He allows for a quick jerk of his head and manages to relax a fraction when Caiman doesn’t hit him again. But Caiman does make Louis wait, leaving him in suspense as he stands in the sun and sweats, shifting his weight restlessly as he tries not to dwell on what new torture Caiman has in mind.

He jumps, spooked, when something flashes in front of his face. 

Caiman laughs and it’s a short, ugly sound that sets Louis’ teeth on edge. “What, you don’t want them?”

Louis tries to bring Caiman into focus, but it’s futile. He tentatively reaches a hand up for whatever Caiman’s dangling in front of him and he swallows a cry of pain when Caiman strikes him with an open palm.

Louis curls in on himself, angry for being caught off guard, and then he abruptly understands what’s being offered. He blinks fast and straightens again when the object moves two inches from his nose.

“Well?” Caiman demands. There’s no trace of amusement left in his voice. “Do you want them?”

“Yes.” Louis pulls the word out slowly, reluctant as he is to ever answer this man. 

Rough fingers grab at his chin but Louis doesn’t startle this time, not even when Caiman’s thumbnail cuts at his lower lip. 

“If you use your teeth, I will make you swallow them. Do you understand?”

Louis does. He nods.

Caiman’s hand falls away from his face and Louis drops his eyes to stare forlornly at the off-white smear of Caiman’s dirty shirt. He’s never taken another man in his mouth, but he hadn’t been naive enough to think he’d escape this particular indignity. He’s only surprised that it took this long for Caiman to ask, and he can only hope that the other man delivers on his promise afterward--

Louis sucks in a breath of surprise when his wrist is grabbed and lifted, and then his glasses are pressed into his hand. Louis stares down for a moment, overcome with the prospect of being able to see again, and his fingers tremble as he unfolds his spectacles and tucks the small hooked arms around the backs of his ears. Louis’ nearly ill with relief as the world comes into focus before him, crisp and bright. 

He blinks up at Caiman and feels a petty stab of anger that _his_ is the first face that Louis has seen in days. 

He watches as Caiman expression twists with impatience, and he’s nearly hypnotized by it, but then his thoughts start to spool outward. He can’t understand why Caiman had granted him his eyesight back _before_ Louis had made good on his end of the deal, but Caiman abruptly shoves him down to his knees and takes his hair in a punishing grip again.

Face with Caiman’s straining prick, he understands with crystal clarity.

✧ ✧ ✧

Henri grows stronger each time he wakes up and his restlessness grows with that strength. Guibert had nearly released him that morning, but Henri had blown that opportunity by stumbling into the edge of someone else’s bed after walking a less-than-impressive ten feet from his own. The doctor had ushered him back with threats of sedation and Henri had only complied because he’s figured out that the fastest way out of the infirmary is to obey.

It’s a difficult concept for him. He’s never really been the obedient type. 

But a part of him understands, even beneath his raging fear, his frothing ego, that he wouldn’t be able to defend himself in this state, much less help Dega. Henri doesn’t even know where Dega _is_ , much less if he’s alright. He assumes that his friend is alive because the alternative is too awful to consider.

Henri takes a deep breath to banish those thoughts and glances up just in time to catch sight of a familiar face between the sway of the curtains that separates him from the others. For a moment Henri’s confused, because it doesn’t make sense, but then it does. 

“Shit,” he mutters, and he berates himself for not noticing the man earlier. He sits up as best he can and calls out in a low voice. 

Guittou sulks back toward him, his head down, eyes darting sullenly between Henri’s hands and the floor. Henri takes deep breaths in order to keep his temper in check. None of this is Guittou’s fault--whatever his connection to Cormier and his employer, he’s not to blame for Henri being separated from Dega. Henri tells himself that three times before he can swallow down his disdain and gesture for Guittou to approach.

Guittou takes two small steps closer and then stops, seemingly resolved to keep his distance. 

“I’m not going to hit you,” Henri says with irritation. It’s the wrong thing to say, if the way Guittou’s eyes dart toward the staircase mean anything. “Harry. That’s your name, right?”

“Yes,” the man says, clearly put out by the fact that Henri has to ask. “What do you want?”

Henri clenches his fists, anxiety churning his stomach into knots, and then forces his hands to relax. “Dega told me about your... offer.”

Guittou goes a shade paler, but he sticks his chin out with defiance. 

“I know why you’ve been watching us,” Henri continues in a voice that he hopes is civil. “You’re just doing what you have to do.”

That catches Guittou off guard. He eyes Henri and takes a wary step closer, as though drawn in. But he doesn’t say anything and Henri has to take it upon himself to keep the conversation going.

“I understand. It’s alright. I just need to ask--do you know what happened?”

Guittou’s eyes flicker to the bandaged side of Henri’s head and he nods. 

“Where is Dega? Is he--?” Henri hesitates, his tongue tied up when he can’t decide if he wants to say _dead_ or _alright_. 

Guittou takes pity on him and doesn’t make him decide. “He’s alive.”

Henri closes his eyes for a moment. He’d been sure--or almost sure--but hearing it confirmed is like coming up for air after a long dive. “Good. Where is he?”

“Route Zero, I think,” Guittou replies with confusion. 

That’s not quite what Henri meant but--“Okay,” he says, and then he hesitates again. He wants to know everything but he’s unsure of how to ask. “Is he alright?”

Guittou suddenly rubs at the rash under his mouth. His eyes drift away as if he’s found something of great interest outside of the window and Henri’s stomach drops at the obvious avoidance.

“Has El Caiman...” Henri starts, and he has to force himself to continue when Guittou blanches at the name. “You need to tell me what’s happening with Dega.”

Guittou’s brow falls low over his eyes and he stares at Henri’s nose instead of risking eye contact. “What do you think?”

Henri doesn’t want to think about that question, much less answer it. 

“They’re on him like a pack of dogs,” Guittou admits morosely, once it’s clear that Henri’s not going to say anything. “They keep him close, Papi. I haven’t even been able to talk to him.”

 _They_ , Henri’s mind repeats back, and it feels like someone’s stuck a hand inside of his gut and then twisted, hard. _Not ‘him’, not ‘El Caiman’--’they’_. Henri feels his pulse pick up, feels his face heat with anger. 

He comes to a sudden conclusion and he doesn’t stop to consider the consequences. “You need to get him in here.”

“Huh?”

“Dega. You need to get him to the infirmary.”

Guittou looks as lost as if Henri had asked him to make the sun rise at midnight. 

“You work here, don’t you?” And of course he does. It makes perfect sense now. Route Zero is the only place that Henri has never seen Guittou--of course he had been assigned other work. 

Guittou nods and doesn’t look any less mystified. 

“You need to get Dega here. It’ll be safer for him than out there,” Henri insists. 

“It’s not that simple, Papi, I can’t just--I’m not even a turnkey,” Guittou grumbles. “I just clean. Guibert isn’t going to listen to me.”

Henri narrows his eyes. He doesn’t bother to disguise what he says next as anything other than a threat. “I’m not asking. Find a way.”

Guittou stares at him like he’s not sure if he should be afraid of a man in a hospital bed or not, but then his eyes twitch down to look at Henri’s bruised knuckles and he licks his lips nervously. “How?”

“What do you think?”

“...You want me to hurt him?” Guittou whispers after a few seconds of contemplation, openly horrified at the realization. 

Henri’s not any happier about it. “Just enough to land him here for a day or two.”

“Papi--”

“Do it,” Henri orders coldly, and Guittou jerks away as if Henri had reached out and slapped him. 

“Okay, Papi. Okay.”

“I’m serious. Don’t do anything stupid--nothing permanent. Just enough that the guards will let you through the gate. I’ll handle Guibert.”

Guittou stands and puts his fingers in his mouth. He chews nervously at them and shoots Henri a fearful glance. “Okay,” he says again, louder, as though to brace himself for the task. Henri opens his mouth but Guittou evidently doesn’t want to hear what he has to say next. He shakes his head and bolts out of the infirmary with the urgency of a man on fire.


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for graphic introspection about sexual assault.

The showers have become Louis’ least favorite place in the prison, which does not come as a surprise but does present a problem. He’s always been a fastidious man. He’s done his best to keep as clean as possible throughout his stay at the penal colony but he can’t help but balk when he’s expected to follow Caimán and his dogs into the showering courtyard without falling to pieces. 

But Louis needs to bathe. 

In a cruel twist of irony, he follows at Caimán’s heels and finds that it’s worse now that he can see. He’d been lightheaded with anxiety the previous days, when he had only had to contend with the sound and smell, and he thinks it’s ridiculous that being able to _see_ the area makes him feel so weak at the knees.

Caimán pauses to find Louis hovering uneasily at the entrance and Louis doesn’t miss the quick calculations that cross his mind. He can see Caimán connecting the pieces and he seems curious, as if he wants to peel back Louis’ skull and witness the unpleasantness that fills him at being back in this place. Louis watches as annoyance overtakes that curiosity. 

“You want to be filthy?” Caimán barks at him. Louis wants to say something but it feels like he’s too far away from himself to make his mouth move. Caimán watches him for another moment, and then he shrugs and finishes stripping. 

Louis drops his eyes and tries not to wonder exactly where in the showering courtyard he’d been brutalized, but the careful wall he’d built around that memory collapses and his stomach convulses with despair. 

He’d surrendered. 

He’d tried to fight at first, but his attempts had been laughable. It kills him to know that Papillon had been forced to watch, and he doesn’t doubt that Papi must be disgusted with him. Papi would’ve wanted him to fight. Louis just hopes that he at least has the opportunity to explain his weakness, to tell him that after Caimán had given up on the capsule and made his next intention clear, there was no _choice_ but to submit. He’d managed to relax against the intrusion, knowing that resisting would only split him open, and it had still hurt more than he’d have ever thought possible. When Caimán had pulled out Louis had been certain that he’d been torn, and he’d imagined himself bleeding out in the mud. 

But he hadn’t. 

His hands start to shake in earnest. He remembers that Caimán had roughly dressed him, still soaking wet, and half-dragged, half-carried him to the barracks. Louis understands now that Caimán had been afraid of losing him to the infirmary and realizes that he should have called out, should have struggled, but he had been too dizzy with pain to register much of anything else until morning. And then, in a state of deliberate denial, he’d limped down to Route Zero and hadn’t lifted a single rock that day. No one had complained--at least not that he’d heard, but the world had been hidden behind a veil of agony and exhaustion, and he doesn’t remember anyone getting close enough to break through his daze. He realizes that Caimán had probably been an effective barrier, just as he has been every day since then. 

He knows that Caimán isn’t protecting him so much as _preserving_ him, but Louis’ sick with relief all the same because he hasn’t been penetrated since that day. He understands Caimán wants him alive, whether to torment Papillon later or avoid Warden Barrot’s guillotine, and they both know that Louis might not survive a second assault so soon. Louis had been lucky enough not to have hemorrhaged out the first time. So Caimán uses him in other ways--he forces Louis’ hand against his prick in the early hours of the morning, ruts violently against him and bites him when he comes, leaving Louis to start the day dirty and ill and shaking. He stands watch as his friends force Louis to masturbate them behind the barracks, lets them push him around and snarl filth at him until they’re either satisfied or spooked by a passing guard. And now Caimán’s made good use of Louis’ throat. Louis can still taste his sweat and semen, can still feel the imprint of his teeth on his throat from that morning and, worst of all, three days later he can still feel the burn of Caimán inside of him--he’s little more than a collection of parts tainted by the memory of Caimán’s appetites.

He starts to breathe a little faster, chest hitching. It’s worse, it’s _so much worse_ , thinking about that now, with the stench of mud and the sound of splattering water filling his senses. Louis realizes that he might be on the verge of passing out and decides not to fight it. He could use a little bit of time away from everything. 

But then someone laughs--it’s a happy sound, and it’s so out of place that it jars him back to reality. Louis’ eyes focus as Dumont and Bissett shove at each other playfully, tussling like schoolboys after class. And suddenly Louis is angry, angrier than he’s been since his arrest, and he grinds his teeth together as Bissett slips in the mud, drawing a snort from Caimán and a howl of derision from the others. 

He’s not about to lie down and faint in their filth. 

Decision made, Louis chews on his anger, sustains himself with it, and shakily moves toward them. He ignores the way they fall quiet, watching, muttering in amusement, as he strips as quickly as he can and steps beneath the bucket furthest away. He can feel Caimán staring. He doesn’t grace him with so much as a glance.

“Hurry up,” Caimán grumbles after a moment, and then he turns away again to watch Bissett give Fernández a healthy shove.

Louis lets out a breath. He slowly raises his hands, movements mechanical and jerky, and scrubs tentatively at his hair and neck. His fingers are shaking but he only registers that in a distant way, as if they belong to someone else. 

He closes his eyes and focuses on cleaning himself.

Afterward, when Louis is dry and pulling his shirt back on, he finds that he’s proud of himself. It’s absurd, and if only his past self could see him now--a prison whore shaking with the relief of having been able to clean himself. Louis sighs and Caimán snaps at him to hurry up again. He complies without thinking, falling into step behind Fernández, and Dumont shoves him out of the way as they pass through the gates and allow the next group of men to enter. 

The harassment barely registers with Louis, because a seed of thought takes root in his mind.

Caimán’s different today. He’s not any less vulgar, any less possessive, but he’s somehow less intense than he’s been since Papi was taken to the infirmary. 

With great reluctant, he thinks back to the afternoon on Route Zero, when he’d been forced to his knees. Caimán had fucked his mouth with little courtesy, but while he’d been indifferent to Louis’ comfort he hadn’t bothered to go out of his way to be _cruel_ , and Louis belatedly recognizes the significance of that.

Maybe there was an angle to work.

Louis was generally good at finding angles. The penal colony has proven to be a much more difficult stage than usual, but he manages to cut himself some slack--it was hard to win someone over when they were actively trying to rob or kill him. He also recognizes that the men who _don’t_ want to cause him harm have been kept at a distance by Papi’s constant guard-dogging. Now, with Papi gone for the foreseeable future, Louis understands that he has to find a way to gain some kind of social standing with the other inmates.

He likes to think it won’t be too difficult. Clara had once told him that he has a silver tongue, and Louis had been pleased at the compliment. He had also accepted it as being mostly true--he knows that he can be charming and very persuasive when he isn’t clumsy with desperation. But then, stroking the egos of rich men, pliant and welcoming from liquor, was very different than convincing convicts who could kill him with one good punch to allow him to keep his money and his teeth intact.

It turns his stomach but he allows himself to sift through the grim possibilities, because while he may not be an optimist he’s certainly never been more than a step away from an opportunist. If Papillon was too injured to protect him any longer, or if he was forced to escape without Louis, could Caimán be turned into an asset? Could Louis somehow redirect his animosity into affection, given enough time? And if that could somehow, in turn, protect Papi...

The thought of Papillon needing _his_ help is laughable. 

He sags with exhaustion and struggles to keep up with the other men as they enter the cafeteria courtyard. They don’t spare a thought for his various aches and pains, and as he watches Caimán and his companions settle into their usual evening spot he hangs back, trying to swallow down self-loathing for even considering debasing himself for protection. His has faith that Papillon will return, and there’s still Cormier’s offer to consider, too; he doesn’t need to stoop to whoring himself out to Caimán just yet. He stares at the man in question as he settles in against the exterior wall of the cafeteria, where he and the others sit and smoke and relax until dinner. Louis doesn’t smoke, and he wouldn’t be spared a cigarette even if he did, so he’s allowed a modicum of breathing space for these precious few minutes. 

He limps to the opposite edge of the building and blinks the evening light from his eyes. No, there’s no need to get ahead of himself. Angle or not, he doesn’t need Caimán yet--he just needs to survive him. 

Caimán takes a long drag on his cigarette and says something that Louis can’t catch at this distance, but the other men roar with laughter. Louis isn’t especially surprised that Caimán has relationships outside the three that stick like suckling pigs to his side, but it is unsettling to watch Caimán blend into the small crowd of smokers, accepted easily as one of their own, after what he’s done. He pictures these men at a pub in Europe and it’s easier to imagine than he expected.

It makes Louis feel oddly lonely and he turns away.

He jolts, surprised, to find Guittou lurking just around the side of the building, barely an arm’s reach away. Louis sucks in a breath and glances at Caimán but Caimán’s not looking his way, and even if he was Louis doubts that he could see Guittou from where he’s sitting. Louis slowly turns to lean against the building, forcing his body to adopt the natural slouch of a man at ease, and he angles his head in Guittou’s direction. He finds himself oddly glad to see Guittou, and his lip curls in a small smile of welcome. Guittou doesn’t smile back. He’s pale--paler than normal--and his hair is plastered flat to his face with sweat.

“Are you alright?” Louis murmurs beneath his breath.

Guittou stutters out a noise, something that could be a laugh, and Louis feels his concern pique.

“You look ill,” Louis says.

Guittou’s heavy breathing begins to unnerve him. “I’m fine,” the other man protests after an awkward pause. 

Louis doesn’t believe him, but he’s not in a position to push the issue. He settles for a minute nod to acknowledge the statement and then he turns his head to stare straight ahead. He doesn’t want it to be too obvious that he’s having a conversation with someone around the side of the building. 

There’s a beat of silence, and then another, and Louis’ temper starts to simmer. Why was Guittou wasting time--didn’t he understand the stakes? It wouldn’t just be Louis’ hide if they pissed Caimán off. 

“What is it?” Louis asks after another excruciating stretch of hearing nothing from Guittou except for labored panting. He speaks quietly from the corner of his mouth but he’s starting to sweat with anxiety. Were they being too obvious? 

“I--” Guittou gives a jittery sound, another not-laugh, and Louis tenses with alarm when he feels Guittou tug firmly at his sleeve. 

Louis looks at Caimán from the corner of his eye and finds him listening to Bissett tell a story with entirely too many hand gestures. Louis thinks he can spare a moment or two. He pushes off of the wall with a wince and turns to face Guittou, who still hasn’t released the fabric of Louis’ sleeve, and face to face again Louis feels another prickle of concern. Guittou’s practically liquefying with perspiration and he looks like he’s about to quiver right out of his shoes. Louis realizes that Guittou may have caught the same fever that had plagued Papi and he feels a pang of pity. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do about it but--

“I’m sorry, Dega,” Guittou tells him.

Louis blinks.

Some primeval instinct must catch on before the rest of his mind does, because he tenses and starts to draw away from Guittou as the other man’s eyes widen and his nostrils flare. Louis tries to jerk back out of his grasp and Guittou fumbles forward instead of letting go.

“Hold still!” Guittou grunts, face pinched with distress. 

He tries to drag Louis back with him into the alley but fear gives Louis the strength to dig his heels in and resist. Guittou’s face distorts with anger at his defiance and his free hand swings forward as Louis begins to struggle in earnest. The punch catches Louis in the stomach when he tries to twist away to avoid it. There’s a pinch and Louis is perplexed at the sensation, because there hadn’t been a lot of force behind the blow.

Guittou stiffens and Louis watches as his face goes slack with horror. Guittou releases his sleeve, hand still raised and clawed in the air, and he then takes an unsteady step away from Louis. There’s an uncomfortable tug in Louis’ belly as they part and he feels a cramp where he’d been hit. Guittou’s eyes fall down to his shirt, cartoonish disbelief twisting his face, so Louis follows his gaze down and frowns in bewilderment.

Someone shouts.

Guittou gapes at him, and then he turns and runs. 

Louis staggers back a step and presses a palm against his abdomen.

Someone darts past him in a blur of motion, following Guittou down the side of the building and into the shadows that the evening light has drawn dark. More people are yelling now. Louis never could stand the sound of men shouting, but it feels very far away from him and he finds that he’s only distantly afraid. He feels a little lightheaded and decides to close his eyes. 

When he blinks them open again a moment later he’s on the ground. He frowns up at the peach-pink clouds and then he’s frowning up at Caimán’s face instead, and Caimán’s yelling at him. Louis flinches, preparing to be struck, but Caimán presses a hand down top of where Louis’ hand is already resting and that’s infinitely worse. Louis gasps in air and tries to push him away. He’s tingling all over and it feels like he’s swallowed glass and he just needs the room to breathe but Caimán’s still looming over him. He’s not shouting anymore but his face is wild with anger. 

Louis raises his head and stares at where Caimán’s huge hand is spread over his belly. Syrup-sticky blood has seeped up between their fingers and Louis starts to panic as the pain takes over. He grabs Caimán’s wrist with his free hand and pushes weakly, trying to get to his feet, because he suddenly knows that he needs to find Papillon. 

People are still shouting and there’s a high shriek, like an animal caught in a trap. For a moment Louis thinks it’s him, because the pain is suddenly that bad, but his own scream is trapped in his chest. The shrill call sounds again.

 _A whistle,_ he thinks, and then Caimán is roughly shoved off of him. 

Louis blinks sluggishly and has trouble tracking the man suddenly struggling with Caimán. Caimán grunts and puts his hands up as he backs away, palms red, and the man moves to stand protectively between him and Louis. 

“Papi,” he says, relieved, but no one seems to hear him. 

He lets his head drop down into the dirt.

✧ ✧ ✧

Guittou’s been gone for a while. Guibert comments on it with annoyance and then makes the pot-bellied turnkey clean the bedpans instead, which the turnkey is very unhappy about. Henri doesn’t exactly blame him, but he’s come to dislike the man over the last few days and decides he doesn’t feel bad about having sent Guittou away either.

The turnkey splashes a pan of urine onto the floor and splutters a curse of disgust.

“Abda,” Guibert sighs from across the room, “please be more careful. And watch your mouth--this is a place of healing, not an ale house.”

Abda adjusts his little hat and turns his back, muttering beneath his breath. Henri’s close enough to hear an empty threat and a quiet curse or two, and he offers an unsympathetic smile as the turnkey passes. With that distraction gone, Henri leans back in his bed and tries to be patient. Guittou had run of out the infirmary before he’d had a chance to run through a strategy and Henri doesn’t know how the other man plans to deliver Dega--he can only hope Guittou he isn’t stupid enough to break Dega’s nose. 

He’s nearly drifting off again when the distant screech of a guard’s whistle sounds. He sits up a bit. The guards blow their whistles at least half a dozen times a day and it doesn’t necessarily mean anything, but his heart begins to thump with anticipation. He would hope that Guittou wouldn’t need to attract that kind of attention, but it was possible the guards had caught on to an orchestrated scuffle and had broken them up.

There’s a shout from the courtyard and then the low _clang_ of the metal gate from the first floor, and Henri perks up. He angles his head to get a glimpse of the stairs, hoping to catch Dega’s eyes when he’s walked up, but he has to wait impatiently as the guards speak in hurried conversation below.

Henri’s brow furrows at the urgency in their voices. Probably not Dega, then. 

He’s about to relax again when two guards hustle up the steps, carrying an inmate by the arms between them. Henri catches sight of Dega’s glasses, his familiar curl of hair, and he eagerly sits up again. Then Henri gets a good look. His blood runs cold.

They drag Dega up onto the landing and Henri stares at the smear that starts at Dega’s naval and cascades down his clothing in a wet, red streak. Dega’s head rolls limply and then jerks, like a child fighting off sleep, and his shock-wide eyes never land on Henri.

Dr. Guibert and the guards have a hasty exchange and then Guibert’s directing them to the open bed in the far corner across the way. Henri stumbles to his feet as they haul Dega across the floor between them, needing to be close, but Guibert whirls on him. He pushes at Henri’s chest and demands that he lie back down and get out of the way. Henri shoves him back, hard. He has to get to Dega--

A hand takes the back of his shirt and tries to pull him back. Henri spins on his heel and throws a punch, which catches Abda in the chin. There’s more shouting, more scrambling, and it’s about then that Henri realizes that he’s only making things worse.

He staggers, dazed, and puts his hands up as he backs toward his bed. Guibert and the guards are watching him warily, positioned as if ready to lurch forward and grab him, so he shakes his head and sits down. Abda spits garbled profanity at him but Henri’s not listening. He watches, numb, as the doctor barks orders at the two inmates on duty, then waves the guards away and quickly closes the curtain around Dega’s bed.

Henri stares down the candy-red stains on the floor and then presses his fingers against his eyelids.

✧ ✧ ✧

“He has a fighting chance,” Guibert tells Abda as he prepares to leave for the night. He’s still got Dega’s blood on his hands, pressed into his nail beds and the thin wrinkles of skin where he hadn’t been thorough enough with the rag. He keeps his voice low but Henri’s world has narrowed down to what’s happening on that side of the room and he hears every word that the doctor says. “Blood loss is our primary concern, but it seems to be under control for now. We had luck on our side--it must have been a small blade, and the guards were pretty quick about getting him here.”

Abda mutters something, and Guibert sighs with what sounds like exasperation. “If he bleeds through the wrappings, you’ll have to redo them. Otherwise, let him sleep. We’ve done what we can.”

Exhaustion is written into every line on Guibert’s face, and Henri studies them blankly as he wanders over. He stares at Henri for a moment, a question at the ready, but then Henri’s gaze catches on a smear of blood on Guibert’s shirt. He quickly presses his eyes shut, nauseous, and listens as Guibert’s slow steps lead him away and down the stairs. The metal gate _clangs_ and Henri slowly opens his eyes.

Abda wanders back and forth, carrying blood-black bundles of gauze and bandages, and then the remains of Dega’s ruined prison uniform. 

Henri closes his eyes again and doesn’t open them for a long time.

✧ ✧ ✧

Threatening to break someone’s jaw and throw them down a flight of stairs is not the best way to make a friend, but Henri finds it is sufficient to earn Abda’s compliance that night. The sullen turnkey frowns at him, his mustache twitching, and doesn’t protest when Henri sinks down into the chair next to Dega’s bed.

It’s dim, but Guibert keeps the lamplights low throughout the night for the inmates who need to rise and find their way to the lavatory, so Henri can take note of a constellation of half-healed bruises across his friend’s face. He doesn’t doubt that he had been present when Dega had suffered the larger blemishes to his jaw and cheek that terrible day they’d been separated, but he studies the small bruises around Dega’s mouth and throat, too. To Henri, they look like the kind of marks fingertips would leave; he’s seen them before, littering Nennete’s arms and hips like freckles after a particularly hard night at Castili’s club. 

It’s not a connection that Henri really wants to make.

Instead, he focuses on staring at Dega as if the man would disappear should his attention lapse. He resists the urge to trace the split on Dega’s lip with a fingertip, as though he could soothe it away, and he thinks about that night. He remembers the dream that had inadvertently led to him striking Dega in the face and wonders if some part of him had known it was only a matter of time before a blade found Dega’s belly. 

In that moment, it’s difficult to resist the siren call of violence. He wants to find Guittou and wring his neck. Henri doesn’t need an explanation, doesn’t need answers from Guittou as to what happened--he only needs to have the other man’s throat in his hands and enough time to really make him _feel_ it. 

But that would mean leaving Dega’s bedside, and so he stays.

✧ ✧ ✧

It’s raining when Henri wakes to a terrible crick in his neck, and for a moment he can’t place himself in time. He rubs his eyes and opens them to a welcome sight in the delicate pre-dawn light.

Henri shifts and leans forward. He lays a hand on Dega’s chest, feather-soft, and takes comfort in the slow rise-and-fall. The bruising on Dega’s face and throat look worse, even just painted in the pastels of the fledgling morning, but he’s sleeping peacefully. Henri hesitates and then gently peels the blanket up. The thick swath of bandaging around Dega’s middle looks darker at the center but he hasn’t bled through.

Henri lightly pulls the blanket back up and tucks it around Dega in the way that his mother had when Henri was very small. It had always annoyed him as a child, feeling bundled down like that, but now he thinks he understands why she’d done it, even on stuffy summer nights. The gesture is for _him_ as much as it is for Dega--the act of providing comfort, providing shelter, it’s nothing less than sacred in that moment.

Henri wears a gentle smile that Dega cannot see and he wraps his fingers around Dega’s wrist just to feel his heart beating. It’s peaceful, he thinks, sitting in the murky half-light with sound of rain softly falling, with the wind stirring the curtains and smelling like late spring in Paris. Henri sits and holds onto Dega and closes his eyes.

The low groan of the gate opening below has him on his feet in an instant, but he has to stand and hold his head in his hands for a moment, waiting for the room to stop spinning, before he can make the short trekk back to his bed. He lies down and hisses out a long sigh of relief--the infirmary’s chairs were less than comfortable and it’s nice to lay flat again. 

He folds his hands over his stomach and closes his eyes, feigning sleep as Guibert climbs the steps and trades a few quiet words with Abda. Henri tenses for a moment, afraid he hadn’t made his threats to the turnkey clear enough, but Abda only grunts out an uneventful account of the night shift before stumbling down the stairs to seek out his own bed.

Henri can hear Guibert approach. He can feel the doctor’s eyes on him, but just as he’s ready to pretend to struggle awake he hears footsteps retreat to the far side of the infirmary.

Henri sucks in a breath and holds in it.

He hears a soft murmur and the rustle of cloth, and he lets out a shaky sigh of relief when Guibert doesn’t shout and call for help. He opens his tired eyes and stares at the ceiling, and he counts his blessings as he listens to Guibert dutifully tend to Dega. It isn’t long before Henri is lulled back to sleep by the soft whisper of rain.

✧ ✧ ✧

There’s a low shout, and then a roar of noise from far away. Henri’s on his feet and halfway to Dega’s bed before his racing heart can catch up with his eyes. He staggers the rest of the way to Dega all the same and touches him once, twice, just to be sure he’s still breathing.

Dega doesn’t stir at his touch, but he’s warm and his chest is rising and falling steadily. Henri lets his hand linger there for a moment and tries to calm the _pit-pat_ lurch of his heart to match the peaceful rhythm of Dega’s. Guibert’s gone, and Henri hadn’t noticed Abda in his dash across the infirmary, so he allows himself to linger.

There’s another shout, but Henri now recognizes it for what it is. He’d only projected panic from being startled awake, and now that he’s got at least one foot in reality he understands that this isn’t the cry of a fight, it’s the ferocity of a guard barking orders. Henri’s reluctant to leave Dega’s side but he draws his hand away and crosses to the opposite side of the room, ignoring the one-eyed man who looks forlornly up at him from the adjacent bed. 

Henri wraps a hand around one of the bars of the window and blinks against the mid-morning brilliance. 

Three guards pace around two inmates, who struggle with a long object wrapped in a sack. A guard from the walkway above the interior court shouts at them to hurry up again. Henri watches curiously as the inmates and their three-man escort leave through the main gate and then vanish in the yawning black chasm of the jungle’s undergrowth.

✧ ✧ ✧

Guibert kicks him out of the hospital after lunch. He breaks the news calmly but firmly, from a safe few feet away. Henri stares at him from the chair next to Dega’s bed, mouth full of unspilled vitriol, but he rises reluctantly. He stops to stare down at his friend again, as if to drink his fill of Dega’s bruised face, and when he looks up again Guibert is watching him closely.

“What?” Henri asks before he can think better of it. He doesn’t hate Guibert--hell, he’s now officially three times indebted to the man--but not in the mood for the kind of examination that Guibert’s inflicting upon him. 

“His glasses. You put them on?”

Henri shrugs his shoulders reluctantly.

“Why?”

“I didn’t want him to wake up and not know where he was.”

Guibert’s stare intensifies and Henri bristles, but then the other man turns to frown down at Dega. “Your friend, I assume,” he says. “I remember you asking where he was.”

It isn’t a question but Henri nods all the same, throat tight. 

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Guibert says, and then raises his hands in a placating gesture at the alarm that that immediately elicits. “Don’t misunderstand. With enough rest and a lot of patience he’ll be all right. The injury is shallow and he was brought in quickly. I only meant…”

Henri doesn’t know what to say--hell, he doesn’t know what to _think_ \--so he settles for narrowing his eyes and waiting the doctor out.

“You knew that something like this would happen, didn’t you?”

Henri blinks and then he gets it. He recognizes the expression in Guibert’s eyes--guilt--and an idea abruptly takes hold. “Not exactly,” Henri admits, keeping his voice low and smooth. “But he’s my friend, and I was worried about him.”

Guibert nods briskly. “Well, we’ll take good care of him here, don’t worry.”

“I’m not,” Henri says, gentle as he can manage. It’s a voice he normally reserves for Nennete, or Dega, but he makes good use of it here. “I know you will.”

Guibert regards him skeptically at that, finally meeting Henri’s eyes in order to study his face for mockery. Henri makes sure he doesn’t find any. 

“Well,” Guibert says again, but his shoulders are a bit higher, his expression a little lighter. “You’re doing better, at least--I can no longer justify keeping you here. Besides, I’m sure your bed will be need by someone else soon enough.” There’s a hesitation, and then a twitch of a sympathetic grimace. “I’m afraid there’s no space for you here.”

Henri bites his tongue and nods, swallowing down a request to take up residence in Dega’s chair instead. “Can I visit?” he asks, and Guibert doesn’t look surprised.

“The infirmary is only for the infirmed, I’m afraid.”

Henri nods stiffly. In a moment of inspiration, he extends his hand. Guibert takes it after a brief hesitation, and his grip is firm and warm. 

“Thank you,” Henri says.

Dr. Guibert’s gaze is wary but he nods politely and steps back to allow Henri to pass. Henri casts one last look at Dega’s sleeping face before trudging his way down the stairs.

✧ ✧ ✧

The rain has stopped but the air all but weeps with humidity. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, and Henri’s annoyed with the weather the moment he steps out into the heat. He shields his eyes against the hateful sun and begins his search.

He checks the barracks and the cafeteria, and then, with an animalistic amount of apprehension, he checks the showers, but Guittou’s nowhere to be found. 

Henri’s about to go stake out the solitary cells when someone calls his name.

“Still alive, I see,” Celier booms, and he gives Henri a playful jab to the side as he comes in close.

Henri grits his teeth and shoves Celier as hard as he can. The other man sputters and windmills his arms to keep from falling, but Henri takes a quick step forward, pushing against his chest again. Celier hits the wall behind him with a soft _oomph_ as the air is knocked from his lungs, and Henri takes the opportunity to clench the collar of Celier’s shirt in his hand.

Celier wheezes, eyes wide, as angry as Henri has ever seen him--but Henri’s angrier still. His shoulders raise and his free hand balls into a fist.

“What the _fuck_ , Papi--”

“Where were you?” Henri snarls, pressing his face in close. He holds Celier’s gaze and doesn’t bother to hold back the hurt, the betrayal, from his own eyes.

Celier goes still. Henri feels the fight drain out of him. “Papi--”

Henri clenches his teeth so hard he’s certain something’s going to crack. His nostrils flair and his shoulders tense, and he’s fully prepared to break Celier’s jaw.

“What could I do?” Celier demands, and he tries to sound outraged but falls short. “What was I supposed to do when _you_ could not handle them? It’s three on one--and for what?”

“You could have tried!” Henri shouts, and he gives Celier a hard shake. “You could have done _something!_ ”

Celier looks genuinely shocked and that only makes Henri angrier. 

“You left him to them! You left him to _that_!”

Celier shakes his head in a small, useless denial. “I was keeping an eye on things, Papi. I knew that they didn’t have the guts to kill him--”

Henri swings before he even registers the resolution to hurt Celier. His battered knuckles land squarely on his jaw and he lets go as the other man staggers away, clutching his face. Celier doesn’t fall, but he retreats a few steps more and regards Henri warily. Henri’s still tense, hot blooded and ready for a fight, but Celier only shakes his head and spits a mouthful of pink saliva into the dirt.

“You got that out of your system?” Celier asks, rubbing the side of his face.

Henri breathes hard and doesn’t answer.

“Good.” Celier smiles at him with bloodied teeth. “You have a good right hook, but you should be channeling that anger toward someone else.”

 _Caimán_ , Henri thinks, and he doesn’t fight the wave of loathing that crashes through him. 

“Although, maybe you should be thanking him, too.”

Henri takes a threatening step forward, intending to put Celier on the ground this time, but Celier squares his own shoulders and shoots him a dark look.

“I gave you that one for free, Papi, because you got your skull scrambled good and I know how _attached_ you are to that boyfriend of yours. But don’t think for a second you’re going get another one.”

Henri curls his lip and considers his options--at the very worst, maybe he’ll get sent back to the infirmary--but Celier looks at his face and raises his hands in an almost-surrender. 

“Relax, Papi,” he suggests, “you--”

“Where’s Guittou?” Henri interrupts.

Celier frowns at him. “Who?”

Henri inhales sharply in an attempt to temper his foul mood. “Black hair, pale little guy, has a rash around his mouth.” He gestures vaguely to the area where Guittou’s redness is the worst.

“Ah.” Celier suddenly can’t hide a sly sort of amusement from his eyes. “You’re talking about the little weasel that got your boy in the gut.”

Henri recognizes the bait for what it is and doesn’t rise to it. “Yes. Him.”

“You’re too late, Papi,” Celier informs him in what might have been an attempt at sympathy. Henri’s not fooled.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“El Caimán. He already took care of it.”

“ _What?_ ” Henri barks, exasperation overtaking his fury. “Took care of what?”

“This Guittou man. One of El Caimán’s mongrels--they caught him behind the barracks last night and beat him to death. I thought you’d be glad to hear it.” 

Henri stares, stomach twisting. Celier seems to delight in the drama of it, feeding himself on the sight of Henri’s grim dismay. 

“He’s dead?”

“The guards had his body carried out this morning. A little something for the sharks.”

“Why?” 

Celier doesn’t have to ask what he means. “Apparently Caimán didn’t take well to that little man damaging something that belonged to him.”

“Dega doesn’t belong to Caimán” Henri protests hotly.

Celier shrugs and Henri again weighs the scales on breaking his jaw. “It’s the strangest thing, Papi. They say this Guittou was screaming that it was an accident as they beat him.” Celier inclines his head, watching Henri’s face closely. “He said it was Dega’s fault for _squirming around_.”

Henri’s stomach plummets. He curses Guittou in his heart and he feels guilty for hating a dead man, one who died as a consequence of Henri’s own command, but he can’t bring himself to take it back. Not with Dega lying near-lifeless up in the infirmary. 

Celier seems to be waiting for something. Henri decides all he’ll get is a solemn nod. 

Celier’s mouth twists with disappointment, but he’s quick to move on. He steps closer to Henri, leaning in to murmur conspiratorially, as if Henri hadn’t socked him in the face only minutes before. “When are we making a move on Caimán?”

Henri’s thrown. “What?”

“Come on, Papi. Now’s as good a time as any.”

“Didn’t realize you cared so much,” Henri drawls, disconcerted that Celier would suddenly be so eager to avenge Dega. 

Celier squints at him. “He has the money now, doesn’t he?”

Henri stares.

Celier laughs, and Henri doesn’t shrug his hand off when it perches amicably on his shoulder. “Your head really _did_ get scrambled, huh?” Celier’s eyes narrow. “He does have it, doesn’t he?”

Henri nods effortlessly, guided by a deeper instinct. Celier smiles. Henri allows him to continue murmuring in his ear, outlining plans on when and where to best rob El Caimán, but his thoughts spin in a different direction. If Celier thinks Caimán has the francs, that takes the heat off of _Dega_. Henri starts to relax, realizing that the other inmates have almost certainly made the same assumption. He knows that Dega didn’t have the capsule in him, knows exactly where it’s safely buried, but no one else is privy to that insight. Of course they would think that Caimán had laid his claim. Even if he denied it--who would believe that Caimán wouldn’t have taken any money that Dega had for himself?

Henri’s heart begins stir with hope, and he feels lighter than he has since his illness had taken hold. He can finally see the way forward again, can nearly taste their freedom.

Dega just has to survive long enough for Henri to pull together a new escape plan.

✧ ✧ ✧

The warden summons them in an unhappy, anxious herd to the main courtyard that evening, and Henri keeps his eyes on El Caimán, who is watching him back with unadulterated malice. Celier bumps his shoulder into his and Henri sucks in an angry breath, ready to retaliate, but the look on Celier’s face stops him. Celier shakes his head and then turns to stare at the guillotine. Henri follows his gaze and narrows his eyes against the glint of metal in the sun.

“Get in a line!” a guard barks from somewhere behind them. “Stand straight!”

Henri’s mouth turns down in a frown but he doesn’t protest as Celier gives him a shove; they position themselves in a loose grid, with Celier capping off their row. They’re directed to fall to their knees and bow their heads at the moment of execution and Henri feels a queasy unease at the prospect of having to bear witness to another man’s death. He’s abruptly glad Dega isn’t present for it.

Celier makes a soft noise and turns to look over his shoulder at the path that cuts through the crowd, as if waiting for something. Henri’s gut churns when he angles his head to see what caught Celier’s attention. A man is led between two guards, bent-forward and secured by the elbows, stumbling like a beast to the slaughter.

Henri recognizes Bissett in an instant and doesn’t look away as he’s escorted forward, digging in his heels and muttering. Henri’s eyes catch on the agonized twist of the man’s hands, which are still raw and bloody from administering the beating that had claimed Guittou’s life. Celier makes a noise of derision and spits at Bissett as he passes.

Crickets chirp an uncomplicated lullaby as the condemned man is marched up the stairs and strapped onto the bench. The warden is giving a speech but Henri tunes him out. The bench is lowered and Bissett is slid forward until his head crowns through the wooden hold. Even at a distance, Henri can see that the man is heaving in air, can see the astonished bulge of his eyes. 

The pleasant breeze ebbs and Henri feels as if the world itself is holding its breath. Warden Barrot removes his hat and respectfully dips his chin.

Henri keeps his chin up and his eyes open as the blade drops and cleaves Bissett’s head from his body.

✧ ✧ ✧

The crickets’ hushed song fills the courtyard again. Henri watches as a line of blood snakes down the wall beneath the guillotine and he distantly wonders if he should feel something other than cold satisfaction. Instead, he thinks only of the stain on the infirmary floor.

The warden abruptly points at Celier. “You. Pick another inmate. You’ll carry the body.”

Henri slowly turns his head and watches surprise flash across Celier’s face. Predictably, Celier turns and gives him a deliberate nod, signifying his choice, and his apprehension seems to drain away into something calculating.

Henri climbs to his feet and doesn’t protest.

✧ ✧ ✧

They carry Bissett’s body in a sack through the jungle, struggling with the weight of it under Santini’s watchful gaze. Henri keeps his eyes open wide, filing information away in his head as they follow a narrow path through the brush, and he only stumbles once. Celier is quick to stop and support Bissett’s bulk as he recovers, and Henri begins walking again slowly, eyes locked on the expanding blot of red on Celier’s stomach. Celier glances down and then shows his teeth. It’s more of a grimace than a smile, but there’s no compassion in it--there’s not a lick of remorse to be found for the dead man, he’s just displeased with the filth of it all.

They continue at a measured pace, taking care not to twist their ankles on the rocks, and it isn’t long before Henri’s shirt is plastered to him with sweat. They’re both breathing hard as they break from the jungle cover and out onto a riverbank where two guards are waiting with a boat and a long wooden box. Celier grunts and lets his side of the body drop without ceremony on the rocks that clutter the shore, and Henri does the same, glad to rest for a moment. He traces his eyes over the ribbon of dark water and breathes in the dank reek of mud and plant rot, dedicating everything to memory. Santini pushes past him and has a quick conversation with the other guards, and then he turns to gesture impatiently at them. 

Celier lifts Bissett’s shoulders again with a huff and together they drag the sack over and into the box, allowing the guards load the makeshift coffin onto the boat and push off, heading downriver to the sea. Santini turns to lead them back to the prison but Henri stands and breathes in the possibilities. Celier claps a hand on his shoulder and gives him a knowing wink as he passes. 

The boat disappears around the bend and Henri turns away.


	7. Sept

Henri waits outside of the infirmary gates that evening, still sticky with sweat. Dr. Guibert is not happy to see him, but he doesn’t even glance over when Henri falls into step beside him. Henri expects a protest, or at least a question, but Guibert ignores him as he heads toward the main gates, intent to leave for the night without incident. Henri’s not about to let him get away that easily.

“Hey,” he prompts, easily keeping stride, “wait up a minute.”

Guibert keeps walking. “This had better be about your head injury--”

“It’s not.”

The honest admission brings Guibert up short, just as Henri knew it would. He softens his voice and raises a hand as though to placate him. “I need to know how Dega’s doing.”

“I’m not going to discuss another patient with you, Mr. Charrière.”

The doctor’s voice is firm, but Henri knows him be a soft-hearted man and he isn’t above appealing to that nature to get what he wants. “Just tell me if he’s alive. Please.”

“He is alive,” the doctor concedes, speaking slowly as if to weigh each word. “Groggy from his injury and the pain medicine, but he’s alive.”

Henri reels back, feeling the tension extinguish out of his body. He’d been as sure as he could be that Dega was alive but it’s nice to get the confirmation, and his mind catches on _groggy_ \--that meant that Dega had woken up. 

Guibert’s watching him closely and seems taken aback by the genuine relief in his face, and Henri realizes that he’s being sized up. He holds his gaze and lets the doctor come to what conclusions he wants.

“I’ve heard that you were framed for murder,” Guibert says at last.

Henri nods slowly, stalling as he tries to decide from the sprawling branch of options laid out before him. In the end he decides to play the best angle that he can think of. “I never killed anyone. But I really was the best damn safecracker in Paris.”

Guibert’s mouth quirks in an almost-smile.

Henri angles his right hand to show off the calico shades of red and purple that blot his knuckles and Guibert’s expression drops at the reminder of the bruises. “I won’t say I never hurt anyone,” Henri tells him quietly, and he’s gratified when the doctor inclines his head closer to listen. “But I never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it. You might find it hard to believe, but I’m not a violent man.”

Guibert definitely doesn’t look like he believes that. But he hasn’t walked away, and Henri thinks that counts for something.

“Dega’s not, either.”

Guibert regards him with a tired exasperation. “Not what?”

“Violent. He’s never even landed a punch, as far as I know.” That much is true, at least, and he can tell that he has Dr. Guibert’s undivided attention now. He hesitates just long enough to make it count. “He was arrested for bond forgery. Never bothered or threatened anyone, but he was a target from the second he stepped off that ship.” Before that, really, but somehow it sounded better to identify French Guiana as the start of it all.

“And why is that?” Guibert challenges.

Henri doesn’t want to tell him about the money--not yet. “You’ve seen him, what do you think?” he says after a moment of silent debate, relying on genuine reluctance to talk about Dega’s assault. 

The doctor’s face changes. He sucks in a breath and draws away a little, his mouth pinched with unease. Henri notices and chases that reaction. “You’ve been around long enough to know what I’m talking about,” he says in a low voice. “What men do to each other here.”

Guibert’s gaze slides away and he focuses on Henri’s ear instead of his eyes. Henri watches as an ugly flush of discomfort spreads across his neck. “I don’t--”

Henri realizes he should back off, but for some reason Guibert’s denial makes his hackles go up. “You saw the bruises, didn’t you? And I’m not talking about the ones on his face.” 

Guibert nods, looking ill. _Hell of a thing for a prison doctor to be squeamish about,_ Henri thinks bitterly. He wants Guibert to say it, wants him to acknowledge the evidence of the extent of Dega’s suffering, but he decides not to push his luck any further. He relaxes his shoulders and angles away from Guibert a fraction to lessen the intensity of their proximity. 

“Thank you. For telling me about how he’s doing.”

“Of course,” Guibert says just a touch too quickly. He looks nearly nauseated with discomfort and he steps around Henri as if to hurry off into the twilight.

“Have a good night, doctor.” 

Guibert hesitates and nods his acknowledgement, but Henri can’t read his expression in the growing dark. He only stares as Guibert turns away again and drops his shoulders as he makes for the main gate, a slouching picture of dejection.

✧ ✧ ✧

Route Zero is a different place without Dega. Henri’s free to focus on the mindless labor and it’s almost nice--he doesn’t have to worry about anything other than lifting and dropping and pushing and pulling. In the moments that coherent thought struggles to the surface--Dega, in a hospital bed; Guittou, chewing on his fingers; Bissett, losing his head--Henri can simply push harder and lose himself in the burn of exertion and the ever-bright glare of the French Guiana sky.

He’s pleasantly exhausted by the time they’re dismissed to eat and drink and shit, but Henri is quick to slip away along the track, not wanting to get caught up in Celier’s plotting. He splinters away from the crowd of hungry convicts and then tempers his pace, walking slowly in order to avoid drawing the attention of the guards. He follows the track and it doesn’t take him long to find the warped beam that Dega had described; he stares at it for a moment, remembering that day, and then shakes himself out of the memory before he could become lost in it. He doesn’t look around. He wanders casually into the brush, sweating, hands twitchy with nerves, but no one shouts or shoots at him.

The tree with white flowers isn’t far. Henri regards it for a moment before glancing over his shoulder, and he crouches down before it when he confirms that he’s alone. He shuffles his hands through the leaves, rakes them through the dirt, and feels a jolt of relief when his fingers almost immediately catch on a metal tube.

Henri brushes soil from money capsule and tucks it into his pocket. 

He has what he needs and he knows he should get back to the group and choke down that goddamn bread, but instead he loiters. He thinks of Dega studying the delicate plant and finds that it makes him feel closer to his friend in that moment, and against his better judgement and against all common sense he lumbers down to sit against the trunk. He takes a measured breath, and then another, sweating and staring up at the little white blossoms and feeling oddly at peace. He’s not surprised that the tree had caught Dega’s attention and he drinks in the simple beauty of it, trying to see it with an artist’s eyes, and he finds himself wondering if Dega had gotten the chance to sketch it.

Henri wonders if Dega will let him see, if he asks nicely.

A bird calls from somewhere above and Henri’s reminded of the sharp cry of the guards’ whistle. He needs to get back. Celier will be wondering where he is and Henri needs to eat while he can, but for a moment he can’t imagine leaving. He wants to stay. He wants to linger in this place, under this tree that Dega had no doubt enjoyed. But then he pictures Dega digging through the dirt, alone and terrified, burying his only hope of survival for Henri to find, knowing that he might not live through the night--

The thought sickens him. Heart pounding in his chest, Henri climbs to his feet and walks out of the brush without a backwards glance.

✧ ✧ ✧

Henri can tell that Celier wants to talk. He’s angry that Henri had disappeared during their lunch break and angrier still that Henri hadn’t even attempted to explain why. He hovers close and sends Henri glances as they march back to the prison, and Henri tries to soothe his never-ending headache by rubbing at his temple. It doesn’t help, but he allows Celier to pull him aside as soon as they make it through the main gate. 

“We need to move on Caimán now. My man has a boat for us. We need the money. We can go, maybe as soon as tomorrow, Papi.”

“We need to wait for Dega,” Henri says without missing a beat.

“ _Forget_ Dega,” Celier hisses, venom in his eyes. “What is wrong with you?”

Henri inhales sharply, ready to tell him to fuck off, but they both startle and stare as a bulky guard marches over from the gate. 

“Charrière,” the man barks, and Henri blinks stupidly at him. The guard’s eyebrows drop with anger, or confusion, or some unpleasant blend of the two. “You’re Charrière, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Henri says, watching Celier shift uncomfortably from the corner of his eye.

“Come with me.”

“Why?” Celier asks, voice dripping with suspicion.

The guard’s head turns slowly. To his credit, Celier doesn’t cower away, but he also doesn’t open his mouth again--he’s not about to risk his hide. When the man is satisfied that his unspoken threat has been conveyed, he turns back to Henri, expectant and impatient. Henri nods. He shuffles forward to follow, only glancing back once to find the look on Celier’s face is almost comical-- _what the fuck did you do?_ may as well have been shouted across the courtyard.

Henri would also like to know what the fuck he did. He follows the guard at a half-pace behind, tense and uneasy, and that feeling blossoms into full-blown anxiety once he realizes where they’re going. He finds himself sick with dread as he stands behind the guard as they wait for the infirmary gate to open.

He wants to shove past the guard and fly up the stairs but he struggles down the impulse--he has to be calm. Whatever was going on, pissing off the armed guards wasn’t going to do him or Dega any good. The inner gate is opened and a bored-looking guard nods to the one escorting Henri, who turns on his heel and stalks away without another word. The metal _clangs_ behind him and Henri waits, heart thundering, until the infirmary guard waves a dismissive hand toward the stairs. Henri’s up them in a moment, dizzy and scared, and Guibert stares at him in alarm as he bursts onto the upper level of the hospital. 

“Mr. Charrière,” he greets, looking him over with wide eyes and raising a hand in preparation to brace him should he fall. 

“What’s going on?” Henri asks bluntly. He’s being rude, and he knows that’s not going to win him the doctor’s favor, but--

“Come, sit down for a moment.”

Henri nearly refuses, trying to see past the row of curtains and bed posts to Dega’s corner, but he licks his lips and follows Guibert to the near the stairs where a small desk and chair wait. Henri collapses down into the chair, his eyes still locked on the curtained bed on the other side of the wing and Guibert doesn’t say anything for a moment. After another few seconds of silence pass Henri glances up to find the doctor watching him again. He’s annoyed in an instant--he can’t stand the way that this man studies him, like he’s a specimen to be prodded and puzzled out. 

“I need to follow up with your concussion,” Guibert declares. His eyes lock with Henri’s and he doesn’t blink. His voice is heavy with purpose. “But you’re not the only appointment I have today. Please wait patiently for a bit.”

Henri doesn’t understand--but then he does. He nods. 

The doctor nods back, satisfied that he’s read between the lines, and then moves away. Henri waits until Guibert draws the curtain across another bed and begins speaking quietly to the inmate housed within it, and then he darts across the room until he’s tearing back the floaty linen that shrouds Dega’s bed. 

Dega’s ashy; the skin around his eyes is bruised and plum and his lips are pinched and pale. Henri collapses down into the chair beside the cot and he grips at Dega’s arm for reassurance that he’s still alive. Dega doesn’t wake at the touch, but he’s warm with life and Henri doesn’t think to lift his hand away.

The doctor finds him like that ten minutes later.

“I really should assess your head injury,” Guibert says quietly, but there’s an edge of amusement to it, like he knows that Henri’s too stupid to accept the offer. 

Henri doesn’t even look up. “How is he?”

“He’s woken a few times. He’s disoriented but he seems to be out of immediate danger.”

Henri fills his lungs and ignores the sting of relief in his eyes.

“He asked for you, though it took me a few times to understand. Papillon, that’s your nickname, isn’t it?”

Henri glances up finds Guibert looking at his chest, where the open collar of his shirt leaves his clavicle exposed. Henri thinks of the tattoo there and nods, and Guibert bobs his head, looking satisfied that that his hunch is confirmed. Henri turns back to Dega.

“He looks pale.”

“He lost quite a bit of blood. Not enough to need a transfusion, thankfully.” Guibert sighs and Henri can hear stress creep into the man’s voice. “We’re not well equipped to treat major injuries here. Probably even less-so than the average field tent.”

“But he’ll be okay.” Henri doesn’t phrase it like a question. He doesn’t accept that _no_ is an option.

“Yes. He does not appear to have symptoms of shell-shock and the bleeding is under control. Infection is always a concern, but with the Carrel-Dakin Method he isn’t at a high risk for sepsis.”

Henri nods absently. He absorbs all of the information but he focuses his attention on that first word-- _yes_. “Thanks,” he mutters, and then remembers to look up at Guibert and stretch his mouth into an attempt at a smile. “Thank you.”

The doctor nods. There’s a sudden apprehension in his eyes and Henri knows what he’s about to say next.

“You should leave. You’ve gotten what you wanted, and if you won’t let me examine your head injury then there’s no reason for you to be here.”

“I understand,” Henri says. “I just need another minute.”

Guibert sucks in air and sighs. Henri keeps his eyes on Dega and holds his breath as he waits.

“Okay,” Guibert grants with exasperation. “Just a few more minutes.”

Henri slowly turns to him and nods with genuine gratitude, and then Guibert strides away and leaves him to watch over Dega. He lays his hand back on top of Dega’s forearm and squeezes down lightly, hoping that he’s well enough to stir, because Henri _needs_ him to open his eyes. 

He’s rewarded when Dega makes a noise, a quiet exhale that’s longer than the rest. Henri squeezes again, gently, and Dega shifts. He moves slowly, like he’s underwater, and his tired eyes find Henri immediately. Henri angles in closer and doesn’t hold back a smile. Dega’s enormous eyes stare at him from behind his glasses, and he seems to recognize who Henri is but he looks at him as if he’s still lost in a dream. Henri rubs his arm and says his name, soft as a sigh. 

Dega hums weakly in the back of his throat and closes his eyes again. 

“You’re going to be okay,” Henri tells him, voice rough. 

Dega’s eyelids drag open again with obvious effort and he frowns, face pinched with confusion. Henri holds deathly still as Dega reaches a wobbly arm up and brushes the back of his hand against Henri’s forehead. He murmurs something unintelligible, drops his arm, and goes back to sleep.

Henri’s throat constricts. 

He realizes that Dega had been checking for a fever and his insides curl with agony. He wants to break something, wants to shout, but all he can do is stare at Dega’s sleeping face and sit with that ache inside of him.

✧ ✧ ✧

Henri sleeps alone again that night and finds that it’s strange to be in the barracks without Dega--the empty space at Henri’s back is a cold void, one that tugs at his mind, and he wakes frequently and turns as if expecting Dega to be there.

Henri misses him more than he might have expected. 

He misses the comfort of having Dega at his back, misses his wry wit and the way that he’s always just a little bit cranky when he wakes up in the morning. He misses having something to protect. Keeping Dega alive had given him purpose. He thinks of Dega in the infirmary and can’t help but feel that he’d failed, and although there’s consolation in the knowledge that Dega is resting a few buildings away, Henri lies in the dark and can’t settle his mind around it in any way that’s comforting.

Henri stares at the ceiling and sees the inky swell of the river in his mind.

✧ ✧ ✧

Celier approaches him towards the end of the next day and demands to know where he’d been dragged off to the night before, and when Henri reluctantly tells him the truth--that Dega’s alive and recovering in the infirmary--he’s not surprised that there’s no relief to be found in Celier’s face. 

“What, they let you stay there all night? You look like shit.”

Henri shakes his head, annoyed but too tired to come up with a smartass retort. “Didn’t sleep much. Bad dreams--”

“I don’t give a shit about your dreams, Papi,” Celier gripes. “Pay attention.”

Henri grumbles under his breath but doesn’t interrupt. 

“Something’s wrong. Our friend El Caimán’s no where to be found.”

Alarm squeezes hard at Henri’s chest. “What?”

Celier gives him a level stare. “Haven’t you noticed? He isn’t here.”

Henri curses himself because no, he hadn’t noticed. He’d exchanged a series of venomous stares from across the route with Caimán the day before, but neither had tried to start anything beneath Santini’s watchful eye. And then Henri had been dragged to the infirmary immediately upon returning from the route. He hadn’t seen Caimán since then--

“Shit,” he breathes. Had Caimán landed himself in the hospital? Henri has to fight down panic at the thought of Caimán coercing his way into the infirmary to finish Dega off in his sleep, and Celier pulls him roughly back down when he staggers to his feet. 

“What are you doing?” Celier spits, and it’s only then that Henri notices a guard watching him cautiously, his hand resting at the pistol on his belt. “Sit down.”

Henri sits.

He takes one deep breath, and then another. Rational thought begins to creep back in at the edges, and he tells himself that there’s nothing that he can do from Route Zero. There hadn’t been any whistles that morning, nothing to indicate an incident had occurred in the hospital overnight, and even Caimán wasn’t stupid enough to try to kill Dega in broad daylight--especially not with Guibert and Abda and the various infirmary workers around. 

Henri sucks in another calming breath. They only have another few hours until they’re marched back to the prison, and Henri can only pray that Guibert will listen once he shows up.

✧ ✧ ✧

It takes a bit of charisma and a lot of patience, but Henri manages to convince the infirmary guard to fetch Guibert. Henri had come straight from the route and he’s still filthy with sweat and dirt, and the doctor grimaces at the sight of him through the gate. 

“Hey,” Henri greets, and he can hear anxiety pitch his own voice. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Guibert warns. “What is it?”

“Has someone else been admitted since I was here last night? Tall, tattooed, dark hair.”

“That’s half of the men here.”

“He goes by El Caimán--”

“No one has been admitted in the past twenty-four hours,” Guibert informs him calmly.

Henri sags against the gate. After several long hours of fighting against the worst of his thoughts, he feels like he can breathe again. “Okay. Good. That’s good.”

Guibert’s got that _you’re a riddle and I’m going to figure you out_ look on his face again, but Henri can’t bring himself to care anymore. He pulls in a deep breath and straightens, and he thanks the doctor again, prepared to stagger away to shower.

“You look a little lightheaded,” the doctor observes.

Henri hesitates. “I’m fine.” He’s sort of not, but he will be.

Guibert’s eyebrows raise and Henri feels a pinch of irritation, but then Guibert blinks slowly. “Did you need me to look at that head wound of yours again?”

Henri stares. He stares for so long that Guibert’s starting to look annoyed. “Yes,” he says, touching a hand to his right temple as though it’s paining him.

Guibert sends him an exasperated look and then turns to the guard, who groans when he rises to his feet. Henri darts inside the gate the moment that its opened and waits at the bottom of the stairs, but Guibert waves him on. 

“I’ll be up momentarily,” he says, and then he turns his back on Henri and begins a quiet conversation with the guard. 

Henri climbs the stairs and finds that he _is_ dizzy, but he’s sure it’s less to do with his head and more to do with the astonishment that his play-nice routine with Guibert had actually worked. But his satisfaction at having charmed the doctor simmers into something hard, something angry, when he finds the pot-bellied turnkey hovering over Dega. He watches in disbelief as Abda smoothes down Dega’s blanket and rests a hand on his chest, lets it linger there as he sits on the edge of the bed and leers.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Abda’s head jerks around and Henri has to clench his fist to keep from putting it into the turnkey’s face. Abda’s surprise quickly morphs into irritation. He scoots off of the bed and stands, opening his mouth to protest, but Henri steps in close.

“Touch him again and I’ll knock that fucking hat right off your head, and then I’ll make you eat it,” he snaps, voice dripping with malice. 

Abda doesn’t seem afraid, but he’s not about to risk a broken nose, either. He grunts and shuffles past Henri without a word, sauntering back toward the stairs as Henri tries to calm his temper. He grits his teeth and watches Abda snap his suspenders as he swaggers away.

“Papi, he’s a doctor,” Dega admonishes from the bed, slurring the words with exhaustion and surprise.

Henri’s head whips around and he finds Dega blinking owlishly up at him. He exhales in a soft hiss of relief.

“No, he’s a turnkey, and I don’t want him touching you.”

Dega gives a little snort, moving his head in a drowsy shake. “You’re being ridiculous,” he grumbles fondly.

 _And you’re not feeling any pain, are you? Guibert must have you on the good stuff_ , Henri thinks with approval, settling down in the bedside chair with a tight smile. Dega’s more lucid than before but clearly still a little loopy, and he seems clearly very glad to see him--Henri can read it in the pleased crease of his eyes and his loose smile, at the way that his hand has moved closer to the edge of the bed as though he’s about to reach out.

“You came back,” Dega says happily. “I wasn’t sure if I’d dreamed you up before.”

Henri’s smile softens into something warmer, and he gives himself permission to set aside his apprehension about the various constellation of threats that orbit Dega, just for the moment. He’s still trying to figure out a way to articulate how glad he is to hear Dega’s voice when the other man’s face changes.

“You were right,” Dega says. He swallows hard, like he’s working up the nerve to speak, and Henri knows that the pills are making his head fuzzy. “About trusting Guittou.”

Henri’s tongue suddenly feels numb. He sits, paralyzed, and watches Dega’s big eyes go vacant with remorse. For a moment Henri considers burying the painful truth, but letting Dega believe that it was his own fault was worse than admitting that Henri was directly responsible for all of it. 

“No, this isn’t on you” he says, throat tight. “This is on me.” He watches as Dega squints at him, confusion written across his pale face, mouth ready to protest. “I told him to hurt you to get you here.”

Henri waits for Dega’s face to twist with anger, but Dega’s mystified frown only deepens. Henri’s chest feels tight. He hadn’t even thought through how to explain this--it seems impossible to find the words. “I thought you’d be safer here with me than on your own out there, so I told him to do what he had to do to get you sent to the infirmary.”

He watches Dega closely, searching for the first hint of betrayal, but Dega only bows his head in a slow nod.

“Well, I suppose your plan worked, then,” Dega deadpans.

Henri opens his mouth and then closes it again. He stares, growing flustered, as Dega watches him with a soft expression. It isn’t forgiveness--Dega doesn’t seem to think that there’s anything _to_ forgive. He doesn’t have to be told that getting stabbed wasn’t the plan, he already understands that Henri would rather have taken the knife into himself.

Henri’s chest feels tight with some unknowable emotion, unsure of what he’s done to earn the faith he finds in Dega’s eyes. Henri wants to look away, wants to deny the unconditional trust that he sees there, but he’s riveted. It’s only when Dega’s eyelids droop and press shut that Henri can take a breath, and even then he keeps a watchful vigil on his friend’s face, looking past the mottled bruises and the sickly pallor of his skin. For the first time he allows himself the luxury of wondering _what next?_ What would happen after they were free? 

“I’m sorry,” Dega says with his eyes closed, drawing Henri out from his thoughts. For a moment he’s not sure if Dega’s speaking in his sleep or not. 

“Sorry for what?” Henri asks with amusement.

“For not fighting harder.”

Henri’s gut twists violently. He doesn’t need to ask what he means. “Dega.” He has to stop, because the only thing he can think to say next is, _shut up_. He stares down into Dega’s battered face and feels cold with a complicated sort of anger. Anger at Caimán, and Guittou, anger at Dega for possibly thinking it would be okay to _apologize_ \--

“You saw,” Dega mutters, sinking deeper into the bed as though he could escape away from the world. “I should have protected myself. I should have fought.”

“No.” It’s effortless for Henri to use his gentliest voice, one he might use with a frightened child. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

He hears Dega suck in a breath of surprise, and he knows Dega thinks that he’s misunderstood.

“What?” Dega asks hoarsely.

“I’m glad you didn’t fight harder.”

“Why?”

Dega’s got his eyes narrowed now, though Henri’s not sure if he’s trying to glare or trying to stay awake. He realizes that he shouldn’t push, not when Dega is so spent, but he needs him to understand. 

“Because you’re alive. And if you had struggled any more than you had you might not be.”

Dega’s big eyes blink. He works his jaw as though chewing through words, but he swallows them down before Henri gets the chance to hear them.

“He would have killed you.”

Dega only makes a noncommittal noise and lowers his eyes. 

“You’re alive. You did what you had to do,” Henri says, and means it. He hopes Dega can see that in his face. 

“I just wanted you to know,” Dega continues, his voice so quiet Henri has to lean in just to make out the words. 

“Know what?” Henri asks reluctantly.

“That I wouldn’t have let him fuck me if I could stop him,” Dega says in a low, wounded voice. “But I couldn’t.”

“Dega--”

“I know what you saw.” Dega falters and Henri can only lay a comforting hand on his arm and wait for him to find the words. “And I’m sorry.”

Dega looks pitiful and small, and Henri hates himself for allowing the conversation to get this far. “Well... I did see that right-hook of yours,” he says after a long moment of thought. He keeps his voice playful, aiming for levity despite the stone sitting on his chest, and he’s pleased when Dega coughs out a surprised laugh. “You really should learn how to throw a goddamn punch, Dega.”

“Yes,” Dega whispers with a barely-there smile. “You should teach me.”

“I will,” Henri promises without hesitation, mindlessly rubbing his thumb along the skin of Dega’s forearm. “I’ll teach you as soon as you get out of here.”

Dega’s head sinks down toward his chest and Henri inhales slowly, trying to convince himself to leave, and when he can’t tear himself away he decides to wait until he’s _sure_ that Dega’s asleep. He tells himself that it’s for Dega’s peace of mind.

“I’m glad,” Dega suddenly mumbles, and Henri almost misses it. He leans in again.

“What?”

“I’m glad it was you.”

Henri realizes that Dega’s delirious with medication or exhaustion, and he tries not to grin at Dega’s unguarded sentimentality. “You need to sleep.”

“I mean it.” Dega’s heavy eyes open and he tracks Henri blearily. Henri’s smile falls away at the severity in his gaze. “I’m glad I met you.”

It’s a hell of a thing to say. Henri feels sick with a strange sense of grief. “Dega--”

“You’re a good man, Papi. I know I was… less than gracious, when you first offered. But I’m glad. I’m glad I changed my mind.”

“Me too,” Henri murmurs, nearly overwhelmed by Dega’s drowsy confession. 

He wants to say more, throat full of unspoken thoughts, but he realizes that Dega’s already asleep.

✧ ✧ ✧

“We need to get to the river.”

“I know,” Henri grouses.

Celier stares at him with half-lidded eyes and waits for him to continue, but Henri only chews through his bread and wipes the sweat from his forehead. 

“And?” Celier demands.

“And what?”

“What, you’ve been so busy playing house up in the hospital with Dega that you haven’t thought it through?”

“I don’t hear you spouting off any bright ideas,” Henri argues. 

Celier’s face darkens.

“We can’t exactly just ask to carry another body out there,” Henri complains, absently tracking a guard that paces along the track. “It doesn’t work like that.” There’s a second flaw with that plan, too--only two inmates were needed for that task. “And even if we somehow if we did make that happen, we’d still have to get through an armed escort. One that’s probably going to be expecting us to try something.”

“We’ll go from here, then.”

Henri shakes his head slowly. “Do you know how to get to the right river from here?” He pauses, hoping Celier will prove him wrong, but the other man only watches him warily. “We need to take that path if we want to be sure. And we _do_ need to be sure.”

“Then we’ll go from here, and backtrack toward the prison to the path.”

“Once they realize that we’ve run there will be guards all over that road.”

“Then _what_ , Papi?” Celier booms, and he settles only when he realizes that his outburst has drawn attention from the other inmates. “What is it that you think we should do?” he hisses.

“We’ll figure it out,” Henri retorts, noncommittal in his nonchalance. 

Celier is less than impressed with that answer, but they’re bullied back to work before he can articulate his frustration.

✧ ✧ ✧

When Henri arrives at the infirmary that evening, he can hear Dega and Guibert talking quietly in the corner. He hesitates halfway across the room and listens to Dega’s dry rumble of a voice, to the doctor’s answering murmur, and then he draws back the curtain and aims a smile at Dega when the smaller man glances up. Doctor Guibert is examining Dega’s stomach and Henri drops into the bedside chair and takes a closer look. The stitches seem clean and neat, the wound red but healing, so Henri wonders about the worry in Guibert’s face.

Dega abruptly jerks in pain and Guibert mutters an apology.

“It’s alright,” the doctor soothes as he presses Dega’s wound with antiseptic-soaked gauze, and Henri’s nose twitches at the smell of the diluted sodium hypochlorite. “You’re healing well, but you’ll be sore for a while, Mr. Dega.”

“How long until you release him?” Henri asks.

Guibert sends him a look that informs Henri he’s still not thrilled with that particular question, so Henri clarifies. “It’s safer for him in here. Keep him as long as you can.”

Dega’s frowning now, expression sharp with disapproval. _I want to be with you_ , his eyes say. Henri can only reach out and lay a heavy hand on his arm.

“Yes, well, I’ll do what I can,” Guibert hedges, wrapping dry bandages around the gauze. “In the meantime, please rest, Mr. Dega. No more getting out of bed unless you absolutely need to--and even then, please ask for assistance.”

Henri turns to Dega in surprise, and Dega has the nerve to look sheepish. 

“I was restless, and I wanted to go to the window,” Dega shares. _I was worried_ , the shy angle of his mouth suggests. _I wanted to see you._ Henri gives his arm another gentle squeeze.

“All the same, we can’t have you pulling your stitches. You’ve suffered a major injury and you’re still in the early stages of healing.”

“I understand,” Dega answers weakly.

“There will be consequences if you push yourself too hard--ones your body may not be able to recover from. You’re still here for a reason--”

“I think he gets the point,” Henri snaps. 

Guibert shakes his head and stands with resignation. He sends Dega one last reproachful glance and then paces away to deal with easier patients, ignoring Henri entirely. 

Once he’s out of earshot Henri lets out a low sigh. 

“I don’t know what’s worse,” Dega mumbles, words starting to blur together in his mouth. “The pain or that man’s mother-henning.”

Henri leans back and laughs. It’s not exactly funny, but Henri’s nearly delirious with exhaustion and he’s relieved that Dega’s feeling well enough to make the joke.

“I suppose I should be grateful, though,” Dega says after a minute of companionable silence. “To be alive,” he clarifies, “and that you’ve managed to charm the doctor into letting you visit. How _did_ you manage that?”

Henri crosses his hands over his stomach, content to sit back and observe Dega trying to get comfortable. “I just told him the truth. Or, part of it, at least.”

“The truth?” 

“That you’re my friend. That I needed to see you.”

Henri’s rewarded with the same look he’d received the first time he’d made such a proclamation. Dega hadn’t had his glasses and hadn’t been able to see him clearly at the time though, and he now drinks in the tender expression on Henri’s face with obvious veneration. He opens his mouth to say something, then seems to think better of it, but when he turns his face away a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips. 

“I see.”

Henri’s happy to let that hang between them, warm and quiet, but he can’t resist putting a nagging wiggle of thought into words. “That turnkey. He been bothering you?”

Dega looks confused. “Who?”

For a moment Henri’s struck by the memory of their first discussion about Guittou, and he has to grit his teeth and push the thought away. “Big guy, small hat.”

“Ah.” Dega’s mouth quirks. “The one you threatened.”

“ _Threatened_ is an exaggeration, Dega.”

“It’s really not. But I’ve hardly noticed him, if that answers your question.”

It doesn’t, not exactly. 

“Why do you ask?” 

“He was getting a bit handsy yesterday,” Henri grumbles. 

Dega barely suppresses an eye-roll. “He’s Guibert’s assistant, of a sort. It’s part of his job to check on the patients here.”

“It didn’t look like much of a medical examination.”

Dega doesn’t bother to hide his eye-roll this time. “Papi, it’s fine.”

“Alright,” Henri concedes, “just tell me when it isn’t.”

“When--not _if_? So much for optimism,” Dega notes sardonically, and Henri can only shrug. Dega watches him for a moment, tired but calm, and when he speaks next Henri can hear the strain in his voice. “Guittou was assigned work here.”

“I know.”

“Ah,” Dega says with realization, “you spoke with him here. That’s how you arranged your little plan.” There’s something light in his voice, like he’s already teasing Henri about the decision that landed him in the infirmary with a gut-wound, and that only makes Henri feel worse.

“I didn’t mean for him to take a knife to you.”

"For what it's worth, it wasn’t a knife. The doctor said it was probably a piece of metal he found somewhere. Apparently there was rust in the laceration." Dega's voice is matter-of-fact, like he's discussing the weather, or the results of a particularly dull tennis match.

"That doesn't make me feel better about it," Henri growls.

Dega aims a patient look in his direction. "I don't think he meant to hurt me. Well--" Dega shakes his head with a weak laugh, gesturing loosely at his stomach. "Not like this. It was my fault. He told me to hold still but I didn't listen. I thought he was trying to hit me and I struggled."

"It doesn't matter," Henri protests with annoyance. First Dega apologized for _not_ fighting, and now he apologizes _for it?_

"He was probably aiming for my side," Dega interrupts as if he hadn't heard. "It would have hurt to be cut there and it would have bled, but Guittou, he used to be an army medic. He knew where to--"

"Dega." Dega startles at his tone and falls silent. Henri waits another few seconds, holding his gaze. "It wasn't your fault."

Dega blinks, doe-eyed with surprise.

"No matter what Guittou meant to do," Henri continues, using a softer voice now that Dega's listening, "he stuck you. You could have died."

Dega shakes his head quickly. "No. Whatever it was, it was small. I’m sure I was more in danger of shell-shock than anything else."

"You were bleeding all over the place," Henri argues. "I was here when you were brought in. I heard Guibert say you could have bled out."

He watches as Dega's eyes go distant, his mouth pressed thin with some emotion that passes too quickly for Henri to identify. "Papi..." he begins, but then his teeth click shut. Henri waits but Dega suddenly looks lost.

Henri takes the opportunity to put his hand on Dega's blanketed knee. Dega’s head sways a bit, like he’s dizzy, and then he pushes his glasses up onto his forehead so that he can rub at his eyes.

"You're tired," Henri tells him.

"I'm not angry with him."

"I can see that."

"He didn't deserve to die."

"You didn't kill him," Henri points out softly. "Bissett did."

Dega stares down at Henri's hand and a stillness seems to come over him, a sort of peace, as though he finds the touch grounding. "Dr. Guibert said that it was probably an accident."

Henri blinks. "What?"

"Guittou had a condition. Years of heroin abuse, that's what the doctor said--that's probably where Guittou’s rash came from. It also weakened his heart."

Henri pulls a deep breath in through his nose. "It gave out."

"That's what the doctor thinks--that they meant to beat him bloody, but that they probably didn't mean to go as far as to kill him. And because of that…” Dega shakes his head slowly and Henri wonders if Bissett is on his mind. “Dr. Guibert called it all a senseless tragedy."

Henri wouldn't go that far. "I wouldn't go that far," he says out loud.

Dega's mouth quirks, but it's a sad-looking smile. "If I had just listened to Guittou, he would still be alive."

Henri squeezes his hand on Dega's knee, drawing his attention back, and feels satisfied when Dega easily focuses on him. "It's not your fault," he says again. Then he relies on a classic tactic--diversion. He arches an eyebrow playfully and regards Dega with mock-suspicion. "Why did Guibert tell you all of this, anyway?"

Dega's sad smile is knowing now too, but he doesn't fight the obvious segue. "He asked me what I remembered about being stabbed. Naturally, we talked about Guittou."

"Sounds like he was pretty chatty with you."

"I'm an excellent conversationalist, Papi," Dega sniffs haughtily, playing along.

"He likes you," Henri says, and realizes it’s true.

"Don't sound so surprised," Dega says dryly. 

Henri can tell he's trying to bait him into an apology. He curls his mouth and leans forward. "I'm not surprised."

"Jealous, then?" Dega jokes.

Henri waggles his eyebrows and Dega barks out a laugh, then winces and presses a palm against his stomach. He huffs with annoyance when he looks up to find concern on Henri’s face. 

“I’m fine.”

“I should let you get some rest.”

“No. Stay a little longer,” Dega says, desperate and soft.

Henri squeezes his knee and gives it a little shake. “Okay.” He feels a pang of affection at Dega’s obvious relief. They sit quietly for a few moments, content to appreciate the precious few moments of calm. Henri can’t help but ruin it. “About that turnkey--”

“Papi,” Dega groans, slumping back against the pillows with exasperation. “I’ve changed my mind--get out.”

Henri laughs and just settles in deeper into the chair, lifting his hand from Dega’s knee to fold his arms over his chest in the perfect picture of refusal. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily now.”

“No,” Dega murmurs, his sea-green eyes impossibly fond. “No, I suppose not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...don't ask me how this chapter got to be this long or why it was so impossible to edit properly. I don't know, but I've lost my patience with it and it'll just have to do, ok? Ok. Now excuse me while I go cry in the corner.


	8. Huit

Henri waits until Dega is comfortably tucked into a dream before standing to find the doctor. He discovers Guibert tending to an inmate’s broken arm and waits a respectful distance away, only offering a small shrug when Guibert turns and narrows his eyes suspiciously when he sees him hovering.

“What is it that I can help you with now, Mr. Charrière?”

Henri has to hold back a smile--he recognizes that Guibert’s rapidly losing patience with him and he doesn’t want to antagonize him, but the other man’s long-suffering _woe is me_ routine is becoming nothing less than comical.

“There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

The inmate on the bed looks between them nervously as Guibert starts re-wrapping the bandages on his arm with perhaps a touch too much force. 

“As you can see, I’m in the middle of tending to a patient in need.”

“I can wait.”

Guibert closes his eyes for a moment, likely calling on his Lord for strength. “You’re not going to listen and leave quietly, are you?”

“Not until I talk to you.” It’s a bit of a gamble to be so bold with a man who has so much power over him, but Henri’s pretty sure that he’s read Guibert correctly. “It’ll only take a minute.”

“Fine,” Guibert says. “But no more of this hovering. Go wait by the stairs.”

Happy to comply, Henri sends Dega’s bed one last glance and then paces over to the entrance of the landing, where Guibert makes him wait for what feels like an excessively long time. By the time the doctor ambles over, Henri’s pretty sure he’s about to miss out on his evening meal. 

But it’s worth it. He’ll make it worth it.

“Alright, what is it?” Guibert demands, cleaning his hands on a rag that’s seen better days. 

“I just wanted to thank you again. For everything that you’ve done.”

The doctor stares. Henri had been hoping for a bit more than that, but he has plenty of bait prepared.

“I owe him my life,” Henri says quietly. The hook lands. Guibert’s eyebrows draw down in confusion, in curiosity, and Henri indulges him. “Dega, he brought some money with him. Not much, but enough to get settled here.”

“Okay,” Guibert mutters warily.

“He bribed a guard to bring me here from Route Zero.” Henri can see the pieces click into place, can tell by the way that Guibert’s face shifts into something softer. 

“When you were ill.”

“Yeah, didn’t stop them from sending me down for some hard labor.”

Guibert sucks in a breath and nods, frustration coloring his expression. “Few things prevent that. An illness certainly wouldn’t.”

“The first week we were here, a man died right next to Dega. Right there on the track while we ate,” Henri recounts. Guibert looks appropriately distressed at the thought. “Dega hadn’t even realized it at first. He tried to shake the man awake. He thought he was sleeping and he didn’t want him to miss out on that scrap of bread.”

Guibert’s eyes flicker. Henri doesn’t doubt that he’s recalling the stream of broken bodies that pass in and out of his door, lost to illness and injury and violence. 

“He thought I was dying. And so he bribed some bastard guard to get me here. To you.”

“You were in bad shape,” Guibert admits with reluctance.

Henri nods. “They would have worked me to death. But Dega didn’t let that happen.”

Guibert rubs a hand across his mouth. “Why are you telling me this?”

“To thank you for keeping him alive. I have a debt to repay.”

“And just how do you plan to do that?”

“Any way that I can.” Henri hesitates, and then offers Guibert a half-smile when a knowing look passes over the other man’s face. “And I have a favor to ask. Keep him here as long as you can. I’ll do my best to keep him alive out there, but there’s nothing I can do on the Route.” That isn’t true, not strictly speaking, but Guibert doesn’t need to know that. “He’s hurt, and he’s not going to get better out there. If you can keep him here--”

Guibert shakes his head. “I can’t keep him here any longer than necessary, and you know that. We’re always in need of beds.”

“He’ll die if he’s sent back to Route Zero.”

“Mr. Charrière--”

“And you know it.”

Guibert stares him down but Henri doesn’t back off. He knows he’s played his cards right, he knows he’s read Guibert’s character--

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”

Henri blinks slowly at him, the picture of innocence. “What do you mean?”

Guibert regards him from beneath half-lidded eyes. “Come on,” he prompts, “out with it. Just say what it is that you actually want.”

Henri’s smile widens into a genuine thing, appreciative of the doctor’s to-the-point attitude--he may not be consistent with it, but it serves Henri’s purposes perfectly now. “You have a staffing vacancy, doctor.”

Guibert’s mouth pops opens.

“You need someone smart, someone who can keep a level head.”

Guibert’s mouth closes. He looks at Henri like he regrets ever allowing him into the infirmary, like maybe it would have been better to have let the fever take him. Henri’s not even offended by that.

“And who better to fill Guittou’s spot than the man he stabbed?”

“You certainly have given this some thought,” Guibert says. It’s not a _no_ , and Henri only inclines his head in acknowledgement, suddenly afraid to say more and tip the scales against himself. Guibert exhales noisily. “I’ll consider it.”

Henri nods, maybe too quickly, but he suddenly understands that it’s exactly that desperation that’s going to save Dega’s life. He searches Guibert’s eyes and drops his guard as best he can. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.”

Henri smiles at the phrase, remembering the last time Guibert had warned him against hope. “You’re a good man,” he informs the doctor, and it sounds needlessly sentimental. 

“Get out of my infirmary.” Guibert’s tone is commanding but there’s no bite to it. 

Henri chews down a smile and retreats down the stairs before Guibert can change his mind.

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis sits in bed, gripping the edge of the thin mattress and bracing himself as his stomach twinges in protest. He doesn’t try to stand yet--he’d gotten lightheaded the last time he’d rushed it, and he has no intention of finding himself face-first on the floor. He’s seen the piss poor job that the inmates do of cleaning it. 

Guibert’s now-familiar voice rumbles from across the room and Louis fills his lungs with the early morning air, trying to ground himself against the growing ache in his abdomen. He closes his eyes and grips the mattress harder, focusing on the sweet lullaby of rain. It’s only a drizzle but Louis has always loved the sound. It’s different in French Guiana than France, but he takes comfort in the gentle _pit pat_ of water dripping from the eaves outside. He pictures Papillon, likely still asleep in the barracks, and doesn’t fight the small smile that tugs at his mouth at the thought. 

“Mr. Dega,” Guibert greets, pulling back the half-drawn curtain and regarding him with a smile as he blinks open his eyes.

“Good morning, doctor,” Louis greets, polite as ever. He’s found that he quite enjoys Guibert’s company, despite Papi’s teasing. He’s spent half of his time in the hospital unconscious or too disoriented to make sense of much, but in his increasingly lucid waking hours he’s found himself appreciative of Guibert’s gentle droning voice and their easy conversations.

Guibert pulls the bedside chair closer and sits down. “You’re looking better today,” he comments with approval.

“Thanks to you,” Louis says, glad to fall back on an easy rhythm of pleasantries. It’s almost like being back in civilized society. 

“It won’t be long until you’ll be ready to be released.”

Louis nods. He thinks he hides his spasm of anxiety well, but the other man is watching closely and seems to notice. “Yes, you’ve done an excellent job of patching me up, Dr. Guibert.”

“Are you relieved?”

Louis is thrown by the question but he recovers quickly enough to give a nod and a tight smile. “Yes, of course.”

“You don’t want to stay?”

“No longer than I have to,” Louis says slowly. He’s starting to feel apprehensive about the conversation, about the way that Guibert’s studying his face. “If you believe I’m well enough to leave--”

“Your friend was very insistent on you staying for as long as possible.”

Louis huffs out a pained laugh. “Papillon can be… overprotective, it seems. But I trust your judgement.”

“I can’t have you taking a bed that you don’t need.”

“Of course not.”

“There never seems to be an end to the injuries and illnesses that this place provokes.”

Louis nods, brow furrowing. “I understand.” He abruptly wonders if maybe the pain medicine is messing with his head, because he’s having trouble parsing the intensity of Guibert’s scrutiny.

“You’re assigned to Route Zero, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Think you’re well enough to work?”

Louis blanches at the thought, but he bows his head in a quick nod all the same. He doesn’t have a choice. “Yes, sir.”

“Even though you can hardly stand.”

It’s not a question. Louis opens his mouth but his thoughts are tumbling now, quicksilver fast over one another as he tries to figure out what Guibert wants him to say. “Sir--”

“You’re an educated man, aren’t you?” Guibert interrupts. “You can read and you can write, yes?”

“Yes, doctor,” Louis replies. He gives up on trying to predict the course of the conversation. Guibert has an agenda and Louis can only trust that it’s not to hurt him. 

“Good.” Guibert nods. His intensity softens and Louis finds that he doesn’t like the pity in the other man’s eyes. “And what of your temperament, Mr. Dega? Your friend would have me believe that you’re not a violent man.”

Louis blinks, befuddled. “No, sir. I abhor violence. But--”

Guibert holds up a hand and Louis obediently falls silent. Louis sits, hands clenched so tight in the sheets that his fingers start to go numb. He tells himself to calm down and he tries to tune back into the steady whisper of rain as Guibert mulls something over in his head. 

“As you know, I now have an opening in my staffing here at the infirmary.”

And just like that Louis gets it. But he can only stare, dumb with disbelief, as Guibert gathers himself up and makes a decision.

“If you’re interested, I think that you might be well suited to the work. It isn’t as easy as it might seem--these men come in seriously injured, or seriously ill, and there’s more to do than mop the floors and clean bedpans. But you strike me as a quick study.”

“Sir,” Louis hesitates, heart pounding in his chest. “If Papillon--”

Guibert waves a hand dismissively. “Your friend may have approached me with the idea, but I’m offering because I see the merits of it.”

Louis’ mouth clicks closed. He’s flustered. He’d assumed that Papi had _bribed_ Guibert, but--

“You’re intelligent, and you’re mild-mannered. Both of which are necessary traits in this line of work.”

“Yes, sir,” Louis agrees, breathless. 

Guibert nods, looking as though he’s relieved to be through with his pitch. He braces his hands on his legs and offers Louis a curious smile. “Well, what do you say, Mr. Dega?”

“Yes,” he murmurs, sick with the sudden desire to see Papillon. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Guibert nods and stands. “You’ll remain here as a patient for the next day or two, until you’ve built your strength back up, and then you’ll be released. After that, you’ll report back here each day.”

Louis’ throat is too tight to speak, and so he nods and gives Guibert a strained smile as the doctor pats him on the knee and retreats, drawing the sheer curtain back across the track. 

A clap of thunder rolls in the distance, like a voice calling out across the sea. Louis listens to the unsteady pound of his heart and sways where he sits.

✧ ✧ ✧

Two days later, Guibert is strategic in his timing--he’d waited to release Dega until Henri had returned from the Route, and he’d even given Henri enough time to shower and eat before meeting them at the infirmary gate. 

Henri meets Guibert’s eyes as the guard allows Dega to shuffle out into the muggy evening, and he feels his heart stutter in relief as the doctor gives a slow, significant nod. Henri jerks his chin in acknowledgement, watching as Guibert turns and retreats back up the stairs, and then he reaches out to steady Dega as he approaches.

“Easy,” he murmurs, his hand fluttering from Dega’s arm to his back to his elbow, unsure of where to settle.

Dega sends him a warm look, and Henri finds himself surprised at the ease with which the other man accepts his touch. Dega’s pale but clearly pleased to see him, and Henri’s quick to rest his hand against Dega’s back as they move away from the infirmary, angling the smaller man in close to his side. 

“Want to head to the barrack?” Henri asks gently, reveling in the satisfaction of having Dega back under his wing.

Dega shakes his head but doesn’t make another suggestion. Henri considers for a moment, then slowly leads Dega up toward their old spot on the walkway. Dega’s mouth curls in a smile once he realizes where they’re going, pleased with the choice, and Henri’s treated to a fond look after they struggle up the stairs together. 

He keeps Dega pressed to his side even after they settle down against the pillar, so he doesn’t miss the way Dega tenses against the small shivers of pain that wrack him. 

“You okay?”

Dega nods, arms wrapped protectively around his middle. “Getting up will be the hard part,” he says lightly, like it’s a joke, but he’s breathless with the effort of hiding his discomfort. 

Henri knows that there’s nothing to be done about it. There are no soft surfaces to seek out, no place for Dega to rest comfortably, and there’s only the hard concrete slab of the barrack to look forward to next. Henri considers, and then draws away a bit. 

Dega half-turns to him, looking a little apprehensive at the sudden distance, but he doesn’t resist when Henri reaches out and slowly pulls at his shoulders, guiding him down; he allows himself to be maneuvered onto his back, and he stares up at Henri with obvious embarrassment as Henri lays his head down in his lap.

Henri takes one look at his face and can’t stop a satisfied smirk from curling his mouth. “Comfortable?” he asks, happy to have the opportunity tease Dega again.

Despite his embarrassment, Dega has wry smile of his own. “It’ll do,” he jokes, eyes already half-lidded with exhaustion. 

Henri snorts and then cards a hand through Dega’s hair without thinking. Dega’s eyes get wide. He watches Henri timidly for a moment, as though he hasn’t made up his mind on if he welcomes the touch or not, and Henri nearly pulls away. He’s mortified to have crossed a line, but then Dega’s eyelid droop low and he relaxes again. 

Henri relaxes too. He still hasn’t lifted his hand away.

“Try to sleep if you can,” he suggests softly.

Dega hums in the back of his throat and closes his eyes, folding his hands carefully over his stomach as though to protect the wound. His head is a comfortable weight against Henri’s thighs, and Henri moves his fingers gently, trying to mimic the way his parents had comforted him as a child. 

Dega makes a small noise, a satisfied sound, and something stirs in Henri’s chest at the sight of him resting peacefully in his lap. He sits with that contentment for a long time, turning Dega’s dark curls through his fingers, and when Dega twitches in his sleep Henri places his free hand over Dega’s and squeezes gently at his fingers. 

Dega murmurs, dreaming, and Henri lets him rest until the evening whistle sounds.

✧ ✧ ✧

Dega wakes up in pain the next morning and there’s little that Henri can do to help. Dega doesn’t even let him try. The medicine has worn off and he’s in a mood, and he waves Henri off as he struggles through their morning routine at a half-pace. By the time they leave the barracks Dega’s sweating and weary-eyed from his efforts and Henri’s nearly lightheaded with relief, knowing Dega won’t have to struggle through the rest of the day on the Route. It would be a quick breakfast and then the infirmary.

But Dega gives him a hard time with even that.

“I’m not hungry,” he protests as Henri guides him toward the cafeteria building with a firm hand.

“You need to eat.”

Dega huffs in a breath. Henri glances over when the argument he’d been expecting doesn’t come. He finds Dega gritting his teeth and pressing a palm into his stomach.

“Easy,” Henri chides, pulling Dega’s hand away by the wrist. 

“Papi.” 

It’s a warning, but it’s a weak one at that. Henri bodily pulls him into the building, taking care not to jostle his friend too hard. “If you pass out on your first day, how is that going to look?” he grumbles. “Unless you want to wind up back in one of the beds instead--”

“I don’t.”

“Then eat something,” Henri says with exasperation. He watches as Dega’s face falls, and when no further protest comes he drags him toward the long rows of concrete tables. They’re among the last to meander in for breakfast and it’s crowded with tired-eyed convicts, but he manages to find a spot on the end of the last row. There’s only enough room for one of them and Henri sends Dega a sharp look when his mouth opens to comment on the obvious conclusion. “Don’t bother,” he warns. 

Dega closes his mouth but his face twists unhappily as Henri makes him sit down.

“Stay here. I’ll be right back.” He only turns away once Dega nods his understanding. Even here, with no obvious threat in sight, Henri’s blood simmers at the prospect of leaving Dega alone for the sixty seconds that it takes to secure the meager excuse of a meal--a slice of rubbery cheese between two old pieces of bread. 

Dega doesn’t look up when Henri deposits the sad excuse for a sandwich on the table in front of him. “Thank you,” he mutters, but he makes no attempt to pick it up. 

Henri hovers at his side, leaning his hip against the end of the table and taking the opportunity to study the room. A handful of dirty faces are aimed in their direction, but El Caimán and his two remaining comrades aren’t among them. Henri feels another prickle of unease and stares hard at the various pairs of watchful eyes, glaring until every curious face turns away. He tries not to let it go to his head, but it feels good to be able to cow the other men with just a look. He’s not quite back at his full strength but he’s getting there, and he’s not above starting a fight if anyone gets too close. They seem to know that, at least, and they keep their distance.

Henri takes a too-large bite of his own cheese sandwich and chews mechanically. He looks down to find Dega half asleep, meal untouched, and he claps a light hand on his shoulder. Dega startles and then stares up at him with confusion. 

“Come on, princess, time to eat. Don’t want to be late for your first day of work, do you?”

Dega groans, but his ornery mood has bled out into something weaker, a pale shade of frustration that’s nearly lost to the exhaustion that still has him in its grip. He licks his lips and raises the bread, and Henri resists the urge to praise him for taking a small bite--despite Celier’s jokes, Dega’s not a dog and he wouldn’t appreciate the sentiment.

Henri finishes his meal and waits patiently as Dega works through half of his sandwich before pushing it away.

“Okay,” Henri concedes, to Dega’s obvious relief. “But you’re eating dinner. All of it.”

Dega rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue, and he even lets Henri help him stand.

It’s harder than Henri would like to admit to deposit Dega at the infirmary gates and walk away, but there’s nothing to be done for it--he makes his way toward the main gate to line up for the Route and for once finds himself grateful that Dega’s not at his side.

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis’ first lesson as a hospital attendant is far from thrilling, and he knows that Papi would be pleased at the crawling pace with which Guibert moves from task to task, pointing out tools and devices and medicines on the lower level. The guard on duty watches them with obvious apathy, practically slouched over the table that sits before the interior gate, and Louis offers him a tight nod when he discovers him staring. The guard doesn’t acknowledge his acknowledgment and Louis feels foolish for thinking that he would.

Guibert’s talking about bandages and bedpans and Louis does his best to listen but he already understands the basics and the healing wound in his belly twinges with every step as he follows the doctor around. 

It’s difficult not to let his mind wander while Guibert drones on about sepsis and the most effective way to combat it, but Louis does his best because he isn’t ready to touch that dark place in his mind, the one that had kept him up until the early hours of the dawn. He’d been glad to let Papi assume that the pain in his stomach was the reason that he was cranky and nauseous, but in truth he’d been too ill with anxiety and exhaustion to eat. Being back in the barracks was difficult. Even with Papi there, a last bastion of of comfort in the dark, Louis couldn’t make himself forget the feel of Caimán’s mouth on him. He’d rubbed at his neck half the night as though trying to chase away errant insects, feeling the phantom sting of teeth at his pulse. It had been different in the infirmary. He’d been too drugged up to think clearly, and being in the sterile, safe comfort of the hospital had allow him build a careful cocoon around the memories of Caimán. 

That cocoon was quickly unraveling now, leaving him sticky and scared and sick.

He follows Guibert and keeps his eyes locked a spot of dirt on the man’s white sleeve, as if that one imperfection held the key to forgetting. He attempts to weave silk back up over the bruised places in his head, where memories of mud and pain and fear are waiting, and he bites his way through a smile when the doctor turns around to quiz him.

✧ ✧ ✧

Lunchtime is an interesting affair. Louis sits in the shade on the exterior steps with the other inmate staffers and the turnkey and blinks down at the little metal plate in his lap. It’s not much food, but it’s fresh and it’s more than he’d ever received on Route Zero. He stares down at the chunks of plain potatoes and the half-coconut and feels a pang of guilt when he thinks of Papi, out there in the merciless French Guiana sun, and he can hardly bring himself to eat. But he does choke down the potatoes, hungry after only eating half of his morning meal. He stares at the leftover chunk of coconut and then slowly begins breaking it into smaller pieces. He meticulously folds those pieces into a cloth that Guibert was no doubt expecting to have returned after the meal and then tucks that into his pocket. He glances at his peers from the corners of his vision, but no one is paying him any mind. He gently pats his pocket and is satisfied that it’s not too conspicuous in the loose fabric--turns out that there were advantages of having ill-fitting pants, he realizes with dull amusement. 

He offers to collect the others’ plates and squares of cloth and pretends that it’s an act of kindness, a gesture from their newest cohort, and not a tactic to hide the fact that he’s responsible for a missing napkin.

Guibert allows him to shadow his steps as he checks on patients for the rest of the day, and Louis forces himself to become absorbed in the work.

✧ ✧ ✧

Papi’s waiting for him at the exterior infirmary gate that evening, showered and smiling, and Louis feels a strange sense of vertigo. He sees himself, just for a moment, waiting patiently at Clara’s door, eager for their first evening out as a couple. The absurdity of the comparison is striking, but Louis is surprised that it’s not an unwelcome thought. He’s smart enough to appreciate the value of a genuine connection, regardless of the setting. Sure, a penal colony in South America wasn’t ideal but--

“You alright?”

Louis flushes. He’s on a half dose of a pain tablet that Guibert had been kind enough to offer and he’s let his thoughts stray too far. He blinks up at Papi and tries not to shy away when the other man presses in close, curiosity painted across his open face.

“Yes.”

“How was your first day?” Papi asks, smirking as he puts a hand on Louis’ arm and guides him away from the infirmary. The motion is smooth, likely done without thought, and that makes Louis pleased for a reason he can’t quite pinpoint. He knows that Papi’s teasing him, but he finds he doesn’t mind the patronizing tone as much as he should.

“Insightful.”

“And Guibert?”

“Sympathetic,” Louis admits, feeling a little smug. It was something they’d discussed last night, pressed close in the barracks. Louis couldn’t call it his idea--he thinks it would be more accurate to say that it had struck them both in a spark of mutual inspiration.

“Good.”

“He’s a kind man. I don’t think it will take long to earn his trust.”

“Don’t push too fast,” Papi warns, but Louis rolls his eyes and does his best not to take offense.

“I’ll be fine, Papi. Unlike a certain impulsive safecracker, I’m used to a long game.”

“Right, not just an artist--a _con artist_.”

“Right,” Louis retorts dryly, ignoring the bait. “I know what I’m doing. I won’t rush it.”

“Good,” Papi says again with genuine satisfaction.

Louis abruptly realizes that they’re heading toward the barracks and hesitates, tugging at Papi’s arm. When the taller man sends him a quizzical glance, Louis leads him away, pulling free of his steadying hand and making a beeline for the storage buildings behind the kitchens. Papi follows, consternation creasing his face.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Papi, but we need a moment alone.”

Papi tilts his head slightly, assessing him with sharp eyes. Louis casts a subtle glance around and finds that they’re an acceptable distance from prying eyes and hungry ears. He leans in close to Papi, angling his body so that he’s half tucked between the other man and the wall.

Papi’s face changes. The wariness falls away and Louis stares with interest as Papi shifts close, looking a little flustered. 

“Dega--” Papi starts, voice husky, but stops.

Louis pulls the cloth from his pocket. He holds it between his palms for a moment and feels a strange sense of pride rush through him. He licks his lips and offers the small bundle to Papi, who takes it curiously and hefts it in his hand like he’s trying to guess what’s inside. Louis rolls his eyes. Smiling, Papi unfolds the cloth to stare down at the little pieces of coconut.

“Dega.” Papi hesitates, and Louis frowns at his tone. “What is this?”

“Coconut,” Louis deadpans.

“Why?”

Louis shifts. He’d been expecting a quick _thank you_ , not an interrogation. “Apparently infirmary workers have quite a few perks, even aside from access to clean water and an absence of back-breaking labor.”

Papi’s brow creases and Louis starts to feel apprehensive when he doesn’t say anything.

“Do you not like coconut?”

“Dega--why are you giving me this?”

“You said I had to eat dinner, not lunch,” Louis jokes.

“Dega.”

“There were potatoes, too. I ate those. I just--didn’t want this.”

“You didn’t want it,” Papi repeats flatly, clearly not buying it. 

Louis sighs. “I wanted you to have it,” he amends, and he’s surprised that the honest admission isn’t as embarrassing as he expected. “If you don’t want it--”

“Thanks.”

Louis’ gaze catches on the look in Papi’s eyes. “You’re welcome,” he says slowly. And there’s the embarrassment. He looks away and clears his throat, and he doesn’t look back until Papi’s polished off the coconut and is back to staring at him with something too close to reverence.

“We should find Cormier,” Louis says, apropos of nothing. He’d been thinking about it all afternoon, and he’d planned out a smooth transition into the conversation ahead of time, complete with no less than four reasons why it was important for Papi to meet him as soon as possible. Blurting it out certainly hadn’t been the plan but it’s too late to take it back and start over. “I should introduce you.”

He looks up to find that Papi’s expression has shifted from awe-struck back to wary, and he’s suddenly not sure which is worse. 

“Alright,” the taller man says after a moment. “Yeah. You’re right.”

Louis begins to shuffle away but Papi’s hand snakes out to take his wrist in a loose grip. Louis blinks up at him when the freshly-folded cloth is pressed into his palm. 

“Thank you,” Papi says again, so softly that it makes Louis’ face warm. “Really.”

“It’s nothing. It’s nothing that you wouldn’t have done,” Louis says, and they both know that it’s true. 

Papi’s mouth quirks up in a smile and Louis turns away with blood in his cheeks.

✧ ✧ ✧

Cormier’s not in the solitary cell that Guittou had led Louis to over what seems like a lifetime ago. He frets about that for a few moments, torn as to what to do next, but Papi presses a feather-light touch to his back and steers him away from the curious eyes of the men who remain behind those locked doors.

Louis wants to search the grounds but Papi convinces him to take a break. Louis’ pride stirs unpleasantly at that, but he can privately admit that he’s about ready to drop. He allows Papi to lead him back toward their barracks and doesn’t mind that Papi’s hand hasn’t retreated from the small of his back.

✧ ✧ ✧

Henri’s so focused on making sure that Dega doesn’t stumble that he’s caught off guard when Dega digs his heels in and forces them to a stop, staring wide-eyed ahead. Henri’s on high alert in a moment, heart pumping, and he follows Dega’s eyes to the man that’s leaning against the side of the barrack beneath theirs.

“Cormier,” Dega says in a soft exhale of surprise. “That’s him.”

Henri frowns and stares. Cormier looks like he’s been waiting, arms crossed loosely over his chest, already watching them. Henri pulls Dega closer as they warily approach and he studies the man. 

He’s taller than Henri. His square shoulders fill out his prison uniform in a way that seems unnatural, like seeing a child stuffed into clothing three sizes too small, and his black eyes watch Henri back with a fathomless emptiness. Henri had heard his fellow sailors describe the dead eyes of a shark during his navy days, and he’d never witnessed it himself but he looks at Cormier and thinks he understands exactly what they’d meant. 

He feels Dega take a breath, ready to speak, but Cormier shakes his head and turns to lead them down the alley between the buildings. Henri hesitates, but Dega turns to look at him and nods--he wants to follow. Henri agrees, but he lingers a few paces back as they follow, wary of being within striking distance of Cormier’s big hands.

He looks like a thug. Henri observes the strict cut of his hair as they walk, noting that it’s been shaved in the back in a clean line from ear to ear, though it flops over where it’s been grown out at the top. It makes him look exactly like the type of bruiser Henri had been expecting to find attached to the end of a rich man’s leash, and he takes a bitter sort of satisfaction in that.

Said goon dips his chin in a gesture of approval as they nestle into the relative privacy of the alleyway. His eyes flicker over them, though there’s nothing curious or searching in his gaze. “Mr. Dega,” he says without intonation. His shark-eyes flick to Henri, and Henri feels pinned by the blank enmity he sees there. “Papillon.”

Henri can see Louis send him a nervous look from the corner of his vision, but he doesn’t dare turn away from Cormier’s gaze. The man is waiting for something--maybe a protest at the familiarity of using a man’s nickname without a proper introduction, or maybe a friendly handshake, but Henri isn’t fazed either way. He lifts his chin and stares. 

Cormier doesn’t even blink at the challenge in his eyes.

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis abruptly wonders if introducing Papi and Cormier had been a mistake. Cormier’s difficult to read and Louis doesn’t know him well enough to be certain that the look on his stoic face is anger, but it’s definitely nearing it as Papi begins peppering him with questions.

"You been here long? You look familiar." Papi’s voice is smooth, unhurried, but Louis can feel how tense he is.

Cormier sends him a lazy look, as if Papi were an insect undeserving of even that much attention. "Was here for a few days before I was taken to solitary."

"And what did you say was that for?" Papi pries. He's certainly not being subtle, but Louis thinks that's the point--it's a provocation. He’s trying to feel this stranger out, find his temper or a crack in that stone-faced facade. 

"Took out a man’s eye," Cormier answers breezily, turning back to Louis.

"What for?" Papi asks.

Louis watches irritation flash across Cormier's face, but he doesn't look at Papi again. He keeps his eyes on Louis. "For trying to steal from my employer."

Louis thinks that's a warning meant for him. He feels a curl of apprehension--did these men already not trust him? If not, why would they even bother to go through the trouble? He sends Papi a glance, but Papi's frowning at the side of Cormier's head and doesn't notice.

Louis clears his throat. “What is the timetable?”

“Until your appeal?”

“Yes.”

“The process is already underway,” Cormier informs him, and Louis’ stomach twists. 

He can’t tell if he’s excited or scared. He decides it’s some strange mix of both. The idea of being back in Paris warred with the idea of leaving Papi behind.

“Your release will likely come within two months. Three months at the latest,” Cormier continues blandly. “The witness in your case will recant. There will be evidence to suggest that he tampered with the defense bonds. Your testimony isn’t needed.”

Louis feels a wave of unease--was it really so simple? It seems too good to be true and it makes him want to sit down. Papi’s hand still hasn’t strayed from the small of Louis’ back, and Louis nearly burns with dismay at how badly he needs it to stay there. 

“When were you released from solitary?” Papi is asking, and Louis tries to clear his head and pay attention.

“Not long after you were released from the hospital, I believe.”

“Do you know what happened?” Papi asks. His voice is dangerously calm, as if he already knows the answer and will not like it, as if he plans to do something about it once his suspicions are confirmed.

Cormier’s eyes drag slowly to Louis and it’s hard for Louis not to quail under the weight of the man’s dark eyes. He manages to keep his head up and his hands from twitching, but he can’t stop the sick turn of his stomach when Cormier nods. There’s no judgment in Cormier’s eyes, no disgust, but there’s no compassion either. 

“Yes,” Cormier says after a moment. “I know of El Caimán. I know what he did to you, and I know where Harry Guittou is now.”

“What about Caimán?” Papi demands immediately, his hand tensing on Louis’ spine. “Where is he?”

“He was caught attempting to escape. He won’t be a problem for you anymore.”

“Is he dead?” Papi asks, and Louis doesn’t miss the hard edge of hope in his voice, but Cormier shakes his head slowly, eyes still on Louis.

“No. He’s enjoying a two year stay at Île Saint-Joseph.”

Louis knows that Cormier’s lying. Not necessarily about where Caimán is, but certainly about how he got there. If asked, Louis would not be able to articulate _how_ he knows this, but there’s something about the deliberate way that Cormier had said it, something in his eyes as he studies Louis’ face now. _This was done for you_ , he seems to say. _This is me serving my purpose._

Louis swallows hard and looks away. “The man who is arranging my release--I want to know his name.”

“My employer is a very private man. He would not be happy if his name were to wind up in the mouths of the cretins here.”

Papi frowns, jaw twitching. “We’re not about to go sharing it around.”

“All the same,” Cormier interrupts coldly. “Mr. Dega, you’ll be introduced once you arrive in Paris. Whatever questions you have will have to wait until then--”

“Fuck that,” Papi retorts with quiet anger, but Louis touches his arm and he goes still.

“I understand,” Louis says stiffly, meeting Cormier’s flinty stare with a hard one of his own.

“We’ll speak again tomorrow evening,” Cormier announces, and then abruptly turns to wander back toward the courtyard.

“Wait,” Papi barks, taking a step forward until he’s planted squarely between Louis and Cormier. “What work were you assigned? I haven’t seen you on the Route.”

Cormier looks over his shoulder at that, and Louis thinks he sees amusement in the man’s face for the first time. “The kitchens.”

Louis and Papi watch as he turns and walks away with long, purposeful strides. When Papi faces him again, Louis can see his own surprise mirrored there.

“Guess we have him to thank for that shit this morning, then,” Papi complains beneath his breath. 

It startles a chuckle out of Louis and he bends forward at a cramp of discomfort in his belly. Papi’s by his side in a moment, touching him with careful hands and trying to find his eyes, and Louis shakes his head and smiles. 

“I can’t imagine that man with a spatula,” he admits breathlessly, allowing Papi to take his elbow and support some of his weight. 

Papi’s smile is mischievous. “How about in an apron?”

Louis collapses against him with a sputter of laughter.


	9. Neuf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for allusions to suicidal ideation and self-harm.

Henri’s feeling pretty good. A few days of having Dega back at his side, a couple of stolen conspiratorial conversations, and a handful of coconut pieces here and there have him in high spirits. A plan is coming together with Celier and Dega’s appeal is in the works. Route Zero gets easier by the day, too. Bolstered with the additional scraps of food that Dega sneaks from the infirmary, he treats the labor like a particularly intense and unpleasant workout routine. Not having to watch Dega’s back for the majority of the day is also a welcome reprieve, though he misses him fiercely throughout the daylight hours. He relishes the evenings that they spend together on walkways and in alleyways, plotting and exchanging stories from work like they’re old friends in a pub back in France.

Their routine has become pleasant and predictable, so much so that Henri’s not terribly concerned that Dega isn’t already at the hospital gate waiting for him--he’s been late before. His heart does kick in alarm when Guibert comes out to meet him instead. Henri's mouth goes dry as he waits for Guibert to be permitted through the gate, knowing that something has gone wrong. 

“Mr. Charrière,” the doctor begins, and Henri does his best not to read into the trepidation in his voice. “I’m afraid to say you’ve wasted a trip. Louis isn’t here.”

 _Louis?_ Henri bristles, but Guibert doesn’t seem to notice. “Where is he?”

Guibert definitely notices the unfriendly tone in his voice though, and he frowns at Henri as though reminded that they don’t have the same easygoing relationship as he apparently has with Dega. “It’s a bit complicated--”

“I’m sure you’ll do your best,” Henri encourages, though it comes out sour.

Guibert has the grace to ignore the slip of Henri’s patience. “He received a letter. I didn’t pry, but he had obviously gotten a bad shock. I sent him away early to recover.”

Henri searches his face and finds a mild but genuine concern there. “What do you mean ‘a shock’? Why did you think that?”

“He went white and he had to sit down. He was nearly unresponsive when I asked him what was wrong.”

“And you don’t know who sent it? Or what it was about?”

“No. As I said, I didn’t pry. I’m not in the habit of invading my patients’ privacy.”

 _He’s not your patient anymore,_ Henri wants to point out, and then abruptly realizes how ridiculous of a distinction that is to make. “Sorry, nevermind.” He takes a deep breath in. “When did you send him away?”

“I wouldn’t quite say that I sent him away. I offered and he accepted,” Guibert corrects in a hard voice. “He left about an hour ago.”

Henri’s gut twists and for a moment he’s at a loss--it’s difficult to imagine a reason that Dega would risk their plan with the doctor by taking off early, and he can’t stand the idea of Dega alone in the common area where anyone could have access to him. His hands twitch.

“Thank you,” he says after too long of a hesitation. 

Guibert looks like he’s going to say something else, but in the end he only exhales in a way that tells Henri he’s done with him, and then turns to signal the guard to let him back through the gate.

✧ ✧ ✧

Henri doesn't bother checking the barracks for Dega, understanding his recent aversion to them without having to ask. Instead, he rushes to their usual spot and feels a sick rush of relief when he finds Dega sitting against the pillar that Henri’s come to think of as _their_ pillar on _their_ walkway. Henri’s stomach drops as he takes in the shock-white pallor of Dega’s face and the way that the paper trembles in his hand.

 _Shit,_ he thinks, approaching with slow steps. He had tried to warn Dega. He’d tried to ease the inevitable blow of bad news about his appeal. He drops down beside his friend and doesn’t touch him, though he leaves only a sliver of space between their shoulders.

“Hey,” he tries after a few long moments of silence. “What’s wrong?” He already knows what’s wrong, of course, but he’s not about to risk come off as smug about it.

Dega ignores the question.

“Guibert said he let you go early.” He pauses long enough to give Dega the opportunity to fill the beat of silence but is disappointed when he’s left to fill it himself. “By the way, since when is it _Louis_ and not _Mr. Dega_?” he teases weakly.

Dega stares down at the words in his hands and says nothing. 

“He said something about a letter.” Henri says it like he can’t see the evidence of that fact in Dega’s shaking hands.

“Leave it alone,” Dega warns. His voice a pitch lower than normal and he speaks slowly, as if it hurts to draw each word out. 

“Dega--”

“Don’t.” 

Henri inhales noisily, expressing his displeasure at the dismissal, but he decides to give Dega the time to process the shock of finding out that his appeal won’t be happening. He feels a wiggle of uncertainty, like a worm stirring in his gut, when he considers the fact that Cormier’s deal is still on the table. He can’t understand why Dega looks like the world’s about to fall down around his head.

Henri abruptly realizes that isn’t not just about the appeal. He wonders if Dega’s lawyer is cruel enough to reveal his affection for Dega’s wife in such a message, with Dega in such a place, and feels a twist of anger. He wants to condemn the man aloud but he clenches the words between his teeth. He risks a glance over again and is suddenly frightened by the look on Dega’s face--he looks like he’s one breath away from his last.

“Clara,” Dega says. 

The name drops like a stone and Henri presses closer to him, cold with dread. He thinks of that long walk down to the bay, of the beautiful woman and the kind-faced lawyer who had held her in his arms as they watched her husband march to the sea.

“She’s dead,” Dega rasps, and Henri reels, jerking like he’s been punched in the gut. His eyes snap to Dega’s face, which is chalky and blank. 

“Dega,” he hisses out softly, at a loss as to how to soothe the agony from his friend’s eyes. 

“She was killed in an alleyway. Robbed of her purse and jewelry,” Dega says without inflection. Henri has to curl his hands into fists to keep from reaching out and touching him. “She’s dead.”

Henri lowers his eyes, struck dumb in the face of Dega’s grief. “I’m sorry,” he says, and it sounds like it’s come from someone else. Dega doesn’t give a sign of having heard him. 

“He loved her.”

Henri reluctantly raises his gaze and finds that Dega’s slowly shaking his head back and forth. Henri doesn’t have to ask who he means. 

“They were to be married in the spring.”

“Shit,” Henri breathes out without thinking. 

“He confessed to stalling my appeal. He stopped drafting the paperwork once he realized that he was in love with her,” Dega says, still shaking his head as if he’s bemused by the prospect. His eyes have widened incrementally, and Henri feels his heart constrict at the sight of his bewildered sorrow. “He was going to marry her.”

“Dega--”

“It’s alright,” Dega interrupts, but Henri knows nothing is further from the truth. “It’s alright.”

Understanding that there aren’t words that will reach him, Henri lays a hand on Dega’s leg, leaving his arms free to push Henri away if he so desires. But Dega doesn’t seem aware of the touch. He stares down at the letter in his hand as if it’s got teeth and the inclination to use them.

Henri has to forcefully drag Dega to their barrack once the whistle shrieks, and he takes no pleasure in the strength of the grip he has to use to keep Dega from sitting down and not getting up again. 

“Come on,” he says, clinging close, and Dega doesn’t fight the confinement of Henri’s arm. 

He allows himself to be led, docile and dry-eyed, to their corner, where he curls up with his back to Henri and doesn’t move again.

✧ ✧ ✧

Clara lingers in his mind like the echo of some lovely thing. He cannot turn her away. He buries himself in the memory of her soft eyes and her off-key singing and lets the grief bite through him.

He finds that the memory of his pretty wife has gorged itself too deep throughout the night, and he lies paralyzed when the morning comes. Papillon hovers, fingertips buried hard enough in his arm to bruise, but Louis hardly feels him at all. _You have to get up_ , Papi is saying, and Louis he can hear the panic but he can’t touch it himself. His hands hook, one fisted in his shirt and the other scratching into the concrete beneath him. 

“Please,” Papillon says, soft enough to wound, and then he threads his warm fingers into Louis’ hair.

Louis’ jaw works and he finds himself staring up at Papi, blinking at the devastation in his friend’s face. 

“Please,” Papi says again, curling himself over Louis as if to protect him, and Louis’ hand drifts from the unforgiving concrete to wrap its fingers in Papillon’s shirt. Louis stares at it as though it’s something separate, some strange thing that he doesn’t recognize as a part of himself, but he finds he can draw in air when Papi closes one of his own wide hands over it. 

“I know,” Louis croaks and doesn’t think to wonder what he means. 

He allows Papi to sit him up and help him dress for the day, and even though they both miss breakfast Louis stares into Papi’s scared eyes from the other side of the infirmary gate and finds that the violent tremor in his heart has calmed.

✧ ✧ ✧

The next day Louis rises before Papillon. He sits up with his ankles locked against the unforgiving metal that binds them each night, and he waits with his hands curled loosely in his lap. He offers Papi a bland smile when Papi startles awake shortly after dawn and reaches for him. He can only nod his head once, slowly, when Papi asks him if he’s alright. It can’t be a lie, he tells himself, because he’s still breathing. He allows Papi to sit up and press in close. He stares down at their joined hands and wonders when Papi had tangled their fingers together.

He dresses himself once they’re released. Papillon watches him closely, as if he’s about to break apart and scatter across the floor, but Louis does a fine job of floating through their familiar routine. He allows Papillon to murmur comforting things but the ghost in his mind devours those, too, and he can only shake his head and turn his face away from Papi’s searching eyes. 

He doesn’t need comfort. He doesn’t need anything.

He’d drawn the spectre of Clara down into the dark, down into the same murky place where memories of his father and El Caimán lurk and lie in wait. He grieves for having put her there, but he now understands that he has a reason to pull himself up off of the concrete each day. He has nearly nothing left to lose, but he finds the resolve to fight to protect that last, bittersweet thing.

He has to get Papillon out.

✧ ✧ ✧

Henri has come to dread the night. He fears it more than leaving Dega at the infirmary each day, hates it more than the way Dega pushes his food away after two bites. The barracks are where Dega looks most at peace, limp against his scratchy blanket, and Henri would think him asleep if not for the restless roving of his right hand.

He no longer sleeps with his back to Dega. He lies on his left side each night and watches and waits, eyes heavy with exhaustion, because he’s come to realize that the threat will not come from the room behind him. The danger is inside of Dega.

Henri watches as he tentatively touches his stomach, below the naval where the evidence of Guittou’s mistake is layered beneath cloth and gauze. Henri’s chest tightens. Dega’s touch is gentle but Henri knows he’ll be burrowing his fingers in deep soon enough, as though he could claw his way into himself and find some meaning in the all the misery. He’s almost certain that Dega’s not aware of the violence he attempts to inflict against himself--his thoughts are far away, his face slack with a quiet sadness, and he never reacts when Henri pulls his frenzied hand away.

The thought of waking up to find Dega still and cold, bloodied by his own hands, keeps Henri on edge. He sleeps in short cycles, jerking awake at any small movement that his friend makes, and he can only drop back into his unhappy dreams when he has Dega’s right hand clasped safe and still in his own.

✧ ✧ ✧

A pit has formed somewhere in his ribcage, a hollow space from which only numbness comes, and Louis doesn’t mind the prospect of being consumed by it.

There’s a certain peace in accepting that. 

He drifts through the day, absently working blood and piss from the infirmary floor, focusing only on the purification of the unfinished wood. He scrubs until his hands are raw and he takes that simple penance with gratitude. He might have thought that the ache would keep him grounded but instead it’s as if every black thought is drained down into his fingertips and out into the floor with each sweep of the rag, leaving him free to think of nothing, to be nothing. 

And so Louis scrubs and wipes and polishes until his head feels empty.

When Guibert tells him to take a break Louis listens, if only to keep the doctor from asking questions. He can’t have Guibert’s attention drawn to the wrong things--he needs the man trusting and pliant and ignorant of the siren song for self-destruction whispering in Louis’ skin.

✧ ✧ ✧

Papillon handles him delicately. The cold has eaten away at the part of Louis that would have cared, and he doesn’t rage against the pity that turns Papi’s mouth down as they sit across from one another on the walkway. 

Papi lights a cigarette and stares at the closed notebook near Louis’ hand. Louis can’t think of why he even brought it, except that Papi had pressed it to him after dinner and he hadn’t had the strength to push it away. 

Papi leans back against the railing and exhales smoke. Louis traces the tendraling smolder with his eyes and wonders if he once would have wondered how to capture it on paper. He decides that he wouldn’t have had the skill to ensnare such a fine thing and smiles at his own arrogance. Papi catches the expression but misreads it--deliberately, perhaps--and smiles back. The sight of it pulls at the knot in Louis’ chest, and it softens him enough to see the pain in Papi’s eyes, nestled in tight with the useless sympathy. Louis' head pounds and he watches Papillon's smile falter, candle-like in it's flickering.

"I'm sorry," Louis says. He's startled by how gruff it comes out and he wonders if it's the first thing he's said all day.

Papi's smile is gone now and Louis feels the loss like a blow.

He finds himself missing the small, lingering touches, the heated glances they’d exchanged before the letter had come, and he hates himself for it. Guilt chews at him again, rabid-hot, and he turns his face away to keep from scratching himself bloody beneath Papi’s gaze. He can only fist his hands in his shirt and try to pretend that Papi isn’t staring at him like he’s about to fall apart.

 _I’m fine,_ he wants to say, but the words are plastered sticky against the roof of his mouth. He wonders what it would take to stand and walk away, to escape Papi’s sad eyes, and finds that he can't fathom the cost.

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis slips in and out of sleep that night, staring at the ceiling until he can’t keep his eyes open, and when he wakes in the morning he finds a calculating resolve has calcified in the hollow of his chest. 

He finds reasons to touch Papillon. He shares his space and brushes his hand lightly over Papi’s arm in gratitude when Papi helps him stand each morning. He lets their shoulders rest together when they lie back against the concrete each night. He feasts himself on the numbness and hardly feels a thing when Clara ghosts through his thoughts as he lies awake, blinking at shadows. He practices his best smile when Guibert compliments his hard work and he dips his head demurely for the guards as he waits for the gates to open, to close, to open, to close--Louis finds it hardly matters which side he’s on anymore. He’s comfortable behind the veil and he only comes up for air when Papillon falls asleep at his side in the dark. 

He breathes easier once the concern begins to clear from Papi’s eyes, knowing that his efforts are proving worthwhile. When Papi teases him one day, a distant part of Louis crows at the minor victory. 

He smiles at Papillon, who easily smiles back, and it keeps him afloat.

✧ ✧ ✧

He’s always been good at pretending. He wonders if he’s been honing the craft of make-believe in order to prepare for a thing like this, because Papillon begins to believe him when he says he’s alright, when he turns his mouth up and he nods and can follow a conversation again, as if the ever-present scratch of grief has settled. He’s grown so used to drifting that he no longer examines black voice that fills the stream of his mind.

Louis comes to recognize the danger of that complacency when a stray thought finds him on the way to the dining hall one evening. With the sun in his eyes and the wind stirring against his skin, he thinks of Clara beside him in an open car, dark hair flowing loose, and he abruptly wishes that El Caimán had killed him. He swallows hard but can’t choke down the chilling desire and he sways away from Papi. He crumples against the side of a building, trying to gasp in a breath that doesn’t come. Papi’s hands fist in his shirt and he’s shaking him, calling his name with a sweet urgency that glances harmlessly over Louis’ head. Warm hands find the sides of his face and he stares at Papillon but sees nothing. 

His chest tightens and he makes a noise--he thinks it’s a laugh, but the fingers holding his head tighten and he re-classifies it as a choke.

“Breathe,” Papillon is commanding. “Dega, you have to breathe.”

Louis’ eyes hurt. He absently wonders why, because they’re dry--whatever tears he has for Clara, they’re lost in the same dark deluge as his memories of her smile, her laugh, and he abruptly pries the glasses from his face and claws at his eyes with the other hand. He wants them out--he wants to cry, wants that childish release, but there’s only the gritty sting that’s come with lying awake in stupefied silence each night.

Papi’s voice is pitched with something close to anger, and that’s when Louis begins to tune back in to the world around him. His stomach flips at the thought of Papi upset with him and he allows the other man to drag his hand away from his eyes. 

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” Papi is saying. Louis stares at him like he’s a stranger. “Fuck.”

There’s a desperate accusation in Papi’s gaze, one that Louis cannot deny-- _I thought you were better_ , Papi’s red-eyes say, _I thought you were okay._

Louis wants to say something, but instead he collapses against Papillon and allows the other man’s arms to fold over him. Louis doesn’t spare a thought for shame at such an open display of weakness, and he doesn’t protest when Papi pulls him to his unsteady feet a while later. They stay pressed close until Louis nods in a jerky motion to some question that he doesn’t understand.

Papillon’s careful hands guide him to the walkway, where he lays Louis’ head in his lap again and mutters distant words of comfort. Louis sighs out a name and falls asleep.

✧ ✧ ✧

Henri watches Dega carefully after his collapse. Dega sleeps a lot after that, as though he needed to break down completely before giving in. He seems more drained than ever each time he wakes but the terrifying nothingness gradually clears from his eyes. It leaves him haunted but Henri coaxes him to rise, to eat, to lie back and sleep, until even that raw ache begins to fade. 

They go to their walkway each evening after Guibert releases a blank-eyed Dega into his care. Henri’s glad that the doctor hasn’t had the opportunity to examine Dega too closely--an accident on the Route has kept his infirmary full and his attention split. Or maybe Guibert has noticed but is too uncomfortable to ask. Henri bitterly recalls the way the man had shied away from the topic of Dega’s rape and has to fight down a wave of anger, knowing it to be useless at best and misplaced at worst. 

Whatever the reason, Dega is allowed to coast by on his numbness. 

Henri combats this by keeping up a near-constant stream of chatter. He knows that Dega isn’t listening but the pain in his face smoothes out all the same, like a small child soothed by a kind voice even without knowing the words. Henri tells him about meaningless things. He talks aimlessly about his childhood home and the farmlands he traipsed through, about his mother’s collection of storybooks and the fact that his father’s favorite thing to cook was always Henri’s least favorite thing to eat, about the first time he’d been kissed by a boy, who had clashed their teeth together, called him stupid, and then fled down the street. 

Dega isn’t listening but some part of him is with Henri in that moment, and that’s enough.

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis realizes that the numbness is lifting and he fights it, trying to draw it back against him like a second skin. But the nothingness is imperfect now and moments filter through. He pretends to smile until he’s not pretending anymore, genuinely amused by Papi’s wild stories or touched by his quiet childhood confessions, and he abruptly finds himself grieving the passing of his agony just as sharply as the first loss. He doesn’t want to let go of his wretchedness, because that’s the last thing he has of her.

But after days of Papi’s quiet coaxing he finds himself skimming along the surface of something else, something kinder. He watches Papi throw a cigarette between his lips and grin and he reminds himself of his promise. Papillon’s escape. Nothing else matters anymore, not even his grief. 

He finds himself content with the idea of that being enough.

✧ ✧ ✧

Henri keeps up his vigilance, unwilling to let his guard down again, but Dega’s wooden expressions eventually soften and grow playful when Henri lays on the charm, hamming it up at every opportunity. It’s days before Henri witnesses a genuine smile curl Dega’s lips and it’s like a mid-summer rain, an unexpected and sweet reprieve, and Henri is nearly struck senseless by it. When he manages to startle a laugh out of the other man the next evening, Henri has to turn his face away to keep from pressing his mouth to Dega’s.

Dega slowly finds his way back from the black place in his mind and it’s like watching him come back to life. Henri understands that it pains Dega to let go of his bereavement, but he’s there to encourage and comfort and tease, never allowing a moment of their time together to be wasted on the simple disagreements that used to plague their conversations. 

He’s careful with his touch too, protecting Dega from his lingering hands and his wandering eyes, but the more space he puts between them the more it seems to draw Dega in, as if he intends to challenge Henri’s attempts at respectful behavior with his usual stubborn aplomb. He stares at Dega and thinks of a moth drawn to candlelight, but he sometimes can’t decide who is the flame and who the reckless creature. He watches as Dega stares out into the horizon and in that moment he doesn’t doubt that Dega is the burning beacon.

Dega turns and catches him staring. 

Henri nearly drops his gaze out of habit, but his eyes snag on the way that the evening settles across Dega’s skin, in the way the light paints his long eyelashes gold. Dega looks steadily back, unblinking, and Henri presses his tongue to the back of his teeth to keep from begging him to speak, desperate to know the thoughts have softened Dega’s eyes like that.

Dega’s heavy gaze traces down his throat and Henri doesn’t doubt their destination. He’s caught Dega staring at his tattoo with a quiet reverence on more than one occasion over the last few days, and it never fails to make his belly curl with warmth. It’s wrong, he knows, to desire Dega in all of the ways that he does. He cannot erase El Caimán’s touch, he cannot take Clara’s place, and he should plead Dega’s forgiveness for allowing those appetites to have taken root at all. He thinks of Dega’s fingers tracing the lines on his chest and raises a cigarette to his mouth to keep from leaning in and finding out what Dega tastes like. 

Dega surprises him by plucking the matchbox from his hands, and Henri watches as Dega turns the little box between his fingers. He slips one red-tipped match from the box and strikes it quickly, and Henri nearly smiles at the flame that he raises, as if Dega was somehow aware of the cliché in his head. They lean into one another, and Dega keeps his eyes stubbornly glued to the point where the cigarette smolders against the match but Henri’s eyes rove Dega’s face for a clue as to what he’s thinking. 

Dega lowers his hand and extinguishes the flame with an easy shake of his wrist. Henri takes a long draw and wonders at the way that the sunlight changes the color of his eyes. He exhales tobacco smoke and asks himself if Dega would mind the taste of it on his tongue. 

Dega slowly turns to lean against the railing again before he can find out. For one wild moment Henri nearly pursues him, but instead leans back against the side of the pillar and savors his cigarette, settling for that lesser craving with admirable restraint. 

He wonders if he imagines the phantom-soft flicker of disappointment in Dega’s face.

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis sets aside time in the night to worship at shrine of pain he’s carved out for Clara in his chest, but he bars himself from lingering in that despair during the daylight hours. There’s work to be done. He sleeps until Papi’s gentle hands wake him in the morning, eats until he’s full, and he refrains from finding ways to quietly hurt himself at work. Taking care of himself works better than he might have hoped--he’d promised himself a temporary reprieve from the pain, but he’s not sure how to feel when the grim desire for annihilation begins to wane in earnest.

He distracts himself by testing Papi’s patience.

“You promised.”

“Dega--”

“Papi, I may have been on pain pills but I remember the conversation quite clearly.” He leans back into the sliver of shade afforded by the cafeteria, still warm from the setting sun, and watches Papillon tumble through a series of unpleasant thoughts. Louis could guess at their nature but Papi’s going to have to say them out loud if he means use them.

Instead, Papi shifts and shakes his head and focuses on his after-dinner cigarette, blowing smoke away in a huff. “I know what I said, but I didn’t mean now,” he grumbles, taking another quick draw from his cigarette, his eyes on the ground. “You’re not in any shape to--”

“As soon as I got out of the infirmary was what you said,” Louis persists. “That was weeks ago.”

“Dega,” Papi sighs, and then scratches at the back of his neck. Louis studies the sun-gold skin there for a moment, then forces himself to look away. 

“I just want to be prepared,” he says quietly. And it’s a cheap blow--he knows it is, but it’s true all the same.

Papillon closes his eyes. The flash of pain across his face is almost enough to make Louis give up. But he knows that there’s a certain relief in focusing his attention on a simple thing, on something that he can _do_ aside from avoiding the locked doors in his mind, and he intends to chase it down. He needs this, and he knows that Papi won’t deny him.

“Papi, please.” He raises a hand and lays it gently on the crook of Papi’s elbow.

Papi’s eyes open and he regards Louis with a weary sort of fondness. “You can be a stubborn asshole sometimes, you know that?”

Louis’ mouth purses in a near-smile. “Yes.”

“Alright,” Papi sighs after a few long moments of deliberation. “I’ll show you a stance or two and I’ll teach you how to not break your hand. But that’s it.”

“For now,” Louis clarifies, and he doesn’t mind when Papi rolls his eyes as he flicks his cigarette away. 

Papillon leads him away from the dining hall, back to the spot behind the storage buildings where Louis had given him the first coconut. It gives Louis a strange thrill to remember that moment--the first time that he can recall that he’d contributed something to their partnership. Armed with that single ember of warmth and the satisfaction of getting what he wants, he leans against a wall and watches and carefully doesn’t think about anything else. Papi spends the next few minutes demonstrating where his feet should be and how to angle his shoulders to protect his chest and stomach, and Louis picks that up easily enough. When he attempts to demonstration his understanding of the stance, Papi begins nitpicking at his posture.

“You need to hunch over a bit more.”

Louis adjusts and curls in on himself. 

“Not that much.”

Louis grumbles and doesn’t tell Papi that the muscles in his stomach twinge at the prospect of moving much more, not wanting to have to admit that it may be a bit too much too soon after all. The laceration itself is mending well but the damage beneath his skin will take longer to heal. He’s not about to complain about it, though. 

He ignores the discomfort and tries to pull his shoulders back correctly, but Papi exhales in playful disappointment and shakes his head.

“You’re too tense, Dega. You need to loosen your stance up.”

The touch to his arm is unexpected but he doesn’t flinch. He allows Papi to maneuver his shoulders from behind and manages not to betray the fine quiver that the contact elicits. Papi makes a noise of approval and walks around him, studying the stance, and then stands before Louis and stares. Louis holds perfectly still as Papi moves in close and adjusts Louis’ arms until they’re tucked in tighter. He feels his pulse thump where Papi holds him by the wrists and glances up to find Papi looking a little bothered at the proximity. 

He licks his lips and Papi tracking the motion. Papi’s eyes are blown dark and he still hasn’t let go, and there’s a pause, an almost breathless hesitation. Louis swallows down a nervous noise and drops his gaze, feeling vulnerable beneath the intensity of that stare. He feels the tips of his ears get hot. Papi clears his throat like he’s going to say something, but instead he unwraps his eager fingers from Louis’ wrists. Louis expects him to retreat but Papi boldly presses in a step closer.

“Papi,” he murmurs, uncertain, and he feels a flush of embarrassment when his voice comes out rough. 

Papillon moves in slowly, giving him the chance to shove away and escape, but Louis only watches him and focuses on breathing evenly.

He shivers and shifts against the wall behind him when Papi crowds in close. His skin tingles where his hands press hard against the rough concrete, and he can feel where his hair is resting curled against his forehead, loosened with sweat. His hands twitch as he thinks of lifting them and exploring the sharp line of Papi's jaw, but finds himself transfixed and petrified as Papi stares down at him, a question forming in his restlessly searching eyes.

Louis knows what he wants--he wants Papi to close the breath of space between them. But he doesn't know if he can say it, doesn't know if he can show it, and Papi’s expression is slowly shifting from wanton to uncertain. Louis watches those blue eyes watch him and abruptly understands that Papi _is_ uncertain. It's strange to see him hesitant, but Louis can see where Papi's straying thoughts have taken him. It sickens him to know that Papillon's thinking about El Caimán and Clara and wondering if he's pushing for too much too soon. He wants to remedy that uncertainty but he hesitates another moment, suddenly terrified he's reading this wrong and will be pushed away. But Papi’s eyes are glossy and dark and kind, and Louis doesn’t resist the temptation to raise one unsteady hand and trace it feather-soft along his cheek. Papi sucks in an audible breath at the touch, his gaze sharpening and following Louis' shy eyes closely. Louis' glad he's focused now, and the fledgling hope he finds in Papi's eyes twists pleasantly at his belly. 

From there it only makes sense to lay his hand flat against the side of Papi's face, to stroke his thumb against the tender skin beneath Papillon's left eye. Papi shifts impatiently, like he has to restrain himself from moving too fast, too close, and Louis doesn't fight a pang of annoyance because he _wants_ Papi crowded in against him. Louis swallows a mouthful of saliva and resolves himself. He curls his fingers against the back of Papillon's neck and pulls.

Papi follows the motion, lamblike in his pliancy, and Louis makes an embarrassingly breathy noise when Papi's suddenly too close to look at properly. Papi's breath ghosts across Louis' face but neither of them close that final distance. Instead, Papi braces a strong, tanned forearm against the wall next to Louis' ear and presses a leg between Louis' thighs. Louis' heart jumps at the friction and his free hand is suddenly gripping hard at Papi's arm. He thinks he must be leaving bruises but the discomfort doesn't even register with Papillon, so focused is he on studying Louis' face and shifting his hips until Louis is pinned panting against the wall.

He can feel the hard line of Papillon’s erection and it’s enough to make him dizzy. He knows it would come as a surprise to most of the convicts, maybe even to Papi, but Louis had never been with a man before Caimán. When he was young he had touched himself to the thought of it just as frequently as he had to fantasies of the girls in his neighborhood, but he'd never acted on the impulse. It had been safer to stick to the familiar, expected company of women. He didn't have to worry as much with them--a woman had never raised a hand against him, had never even threatened to hurt him, and until his arrest he'd taken immense comfort in that. 

His courtship of Clara had been nothing less than tender; she had been a kind, softly spoken creature who had liked his gentleness and his round glasses, who had genuinely taken pleasure in his humor and had gracefully weathered his occasional melancholy. In return, Louis had delighted in Clara's quick wit, had been glad to hold her after she'd had terrible dreams, had patiently tended to her after she'd gone silly with too much wine. 

They had been good for one another. 

Louis stares at Papillon's mouth and hopes that she would understand the painful fondness that fills him now, standing beneath this strange man. He prays that she will forgive him for surrendering to the need to lose himself in the near-forgotten comfort of a lover and he deliberately tells himself not think about Clara's own indiscretions. She'd done what she felt she'd had to, and it wasn't her fault that she had married a criminal--he'd never meant to hurt her, never meant to leave her alone. She'd deserved _better_ , and Louis had earned his fate. He deserved to be here, deserved to be humiliated and beaten bloody for having been so pompous in his skill that he had become complacent, for caring more about tricking men out of their francs than building a proper life with her. He--

Papi cups his face between warm hands and Louis shudders out a breath. Papillon tries to raise Louis' face, tries to look into his eyes, but Louis’ gaze stays glued to the crude butterfly tattoo on Papi's clavicle.

"Hey," Papi murmurs, and the sweetness in his voice, in his touch, it wrenches at something in Louis' chest. 

He realizes that he's about to cry and he closes his eyes in horror. He hadn't allowed himself the luxury of tears since that first night after his conviction, when he'd tucked himself into the corner of his solitary holding cell and had cried silently into his shirt. He'd kept his eyes dry since then, even when El Caimán brutalized and humiliated him, even when he’d received the news of Clara’s passing, and he burns with shame at the prospect of crying _now_.

Papi's thumb shifts to rub gently along his cheekbone and Louis raises his hands to grip at his wrist with the intention of pushing him away. But then Papillon brushes their mouths together and Louis cannot remember why he would want to do a thing like that.

"Where did you go?" Papi asks, his lips moving against Louis' as he speaks, and Louis retreats enough to look up at him with wet eyes.

The look on Papi’s face is close enough to pity that Louis should be angry, but instead he finds a permission in his solemn gaze. In that moment, Louis knows that he could grip at him and cry and not be pushed away.

"I need you," he says quietly.

Papi's jaw twitches like he's going to say something, but Louis crushes their mouths together before he can get a word out.

✧ ✧ ✧

Dega's firm and warm and it's hard for Henri to hold his greedy hands still.

Touching him feels like waltzing through a minefield. The spectre of El Caimán and the remnants of his wife crowd into the spaces between them and Henri can't bear the thought of letting go, not now that he knows what Dega tastes like, and so he moves his fingertips delicately through Dega's soft hair when all he wants to do is grip tight and _pull_. He's strung tight and desperate for Dega to move against him, but he settles for the teasing friction.

Dega makes a heady noise into his mouth and Henri strokes his thumbs along his sharp cheekbones and kisses him harder. When Dega pulls back to suck in air Henri doesn't relinquish his possessive hold of his head, but Dega doesn't seem to mind. With a bit of distance, Henri can see his face now, can see the flush in Dega's cheeks and the inky black of his pupils blown wide. Henri drags the leg he has pressed between Dega's thighs higher and groans when Dega jerks his hips in anticipation.

"Papi," Dega says, and his voice is low and thick and Henri can only press himself closer in response because _fuck_. It's so good to hear Dega's voice, so good to cradle his face in his hands and finally feel him. 

Henri rocks his hips and breathes out a lewd sigh when Dega finally sinks down against his leg, straddling him with his full weight. He presses his mouth to Dega’s again, aching with want, when he feels Dega shift his own thigh until it brushes tentatively against Henri's groin.

There's a fine tremble in Dega's fingers now. Henri can feel it where they rest against his face and where they press into his arm, and he can only hope that Dega's quivering is as lustful as it feels. Henri’s thoughts slip precariously towards mud and the sight of El Caimán’s fingers gripping into Dega’s flesh and he can’t fight off a sickening chill of uncertainty.

"Papi," Dega sighs again, and the adoration in his voice abruptly soothes any doubts that had been lingering in Henri's heart.

Henri hums against his mouth and then drops his hands away from Dega's head to grip at his hips. Dega makes an encouraging noise as Henri's fingers stroke the line of flesh that rests above the hem of his pants. His skin is warm and soft and he moves lightly against Henri, trying to spur him on, but Henri's careful. He lets his hands wander up, spidering over the raised skin on Dega's stomach, and he bites at Dega's mouth to keep from thinking about Guittou's knife going in, to keep from picturing Dega’s fingers ravaging the injury in the dark.

Dega startles, and then he bites back. He kisses and rubs against Henri with renewed vigor and Henri lets his hands wander in earnest, avoiding the still-healing scar and seeking out sweat-slick skin instead.

"Fuck," he mutters, breathing hard as Dega abandons his mouth and drops his head to kiss Henri's neck instead. The hand that had been gripping Henri's arm drifts to his chest, stroking at his collarbone, and he realizes that Dega is absently tracing the lines of the butterfly tattoo. It sends a peculiar spike of heat down to his groin and he shivers, nearly overwhelmed with the sensation of Dega sitting on his leg, of the forger's clever fingertips running over the old ink. 

Henri's hands find Dega's waist again and he starts rutting as Dega's teeth scrape over the thin flesh at his throat. Dega presses his thigh harder against Henri's cock and then bucks his hips, setting a determined rhythm, and Henri can only hold on and pant. 

It's over too fast--they're both too worked up, too starved for touch, and Henri crushes Dega against the wall and grinds into him until he shudders and finishes without ceremony. He stays pressed tight against Dega as he legs go weak for a moment. Dega huffs into his neck, needy, and continues to writhe against him. Henri wants to touch him, wants to reach down and really feel him, but his arms are busy keeping them both upright.

The noise that Dega makes when he comes has Henri groaning and jerking, already spent and oversensitive but helpless against the animal curl of arousal that still has him in it’s grip. Dega goes limp and Henri holds him close. Dega doesn't protest when he encircles his waist with an arm, keeping them locked together despite the increasingly uncomfortable heat, and Henri presses a rough kiss into Dega's temple. Dega starts to shake harder after that and Henri tries to draw back to look at him, worried, but Dega's hands claw in his shirt and keep him in place.

"Don't," Dega begs, despair sharpening his voice like a weapon. "Don't, just--"

"It's okay," Henri murmurs. He presses his face against the side of Dega's head and breathes against his hair. “I won’t.”

Dega drops his face to rest in the hollow of Henri’s neck and makes a low, wounded noise, and Henri squeezes his eyes shut. He pulls Dega in impossibly tighter, until there’s less than breath between them. Dega crumples against him and shakes, weeping soundlessly.


	10. Dix

Henri feels light in the afterglow of their shared pleasure, but he watches Dega as they shower and clean their clothing and starts to feel a now-familiar doubt creep beneath his skin. He’d hoped that what they had done would be cathartic, and when Dega had finally let go and cried he’d held him close and nearly gone weak with his own relief. But now Dega’s eyes are distant. He moves in the same dreamlike state that he’d been lost beneath only days ago and it makes Henri want to hit something.

They squeeze the water from their uniforms as best as possible and have no choice but to redress in the damp linens, and Henri’s shirt rests against his skin in a way that feels claustrophobic. He’s restless and uneasy but he moves slowly, allowing Dega to lead them to their walkway, glad to linger a step behind as he gathers his thoughts. 

Dega approaches their usual pillar but braces his elbows against the railing and stands, staring out into the molten horizon, his eyes empty. Henri feels the distance between them in that moment, as though they’re lost to one another despite the fact that he could effortlessly reach out and lay his fingers against Dega’s still-flushed skin. Henri wonders if Dega would welcome the touch.

He watches and waits and resolves to hold his tongue, hoping to draw Dega out, but it isn’t long before the silence soon chews through his good sense. 

“You alright?”

“Yes,” Dega says without turning. 

Henri frowns at the murkiness of his voice, as though he’s far away from himself again. Henri pulls in a breath and pushes it out, uncharacteristically uncertain, and scrubs a hand through his hair. “You sure?”

There’s a loaded pause and when Dega half-angles toward him, still refusing to turn and face him directly, Henri tries to temper his frown into something pleasantly neutral. Dega’s brow furrows and he’s not sure if he succeeds.

“Yes.”

Henri nods as if he accepts that, but it’s a hesitant motion and Dega’s eyes narrow before he turns back to watch the last sliver of the evening sun sink out of sight. Henri studies the side of his lover’s face and wonders where he fucked up, wonders at the arrogance of even thinking of this man as _his_. He wonders if Dega’s hands will seek out his scar in the dark tonight.

“Alright,” he murmurs, and he thinks he’s doing a good job of hiding his concern but Dega rounds on him quickly.

“What?” 

Henri is careful not to react to the edge in his voice. He licks his teeth and weighs his options and finds none of them satisfying. “I’m sorry,” is what he settles on after a long moment of contemplation.

Dega gazes at him, gobsmacked, as Henri sinks down against the pillar and sits, hoping to encourage Dega to do the same. 

“Sorry for what?” 

No such luck--Dega’s determined to keep his distance. He speaks with a clenched jaw and Henri’s smart enough to recognize the warning, but he’s not smart enough to heed it.

“You know for what,” he says slowly. Dega stares mulishly back, as if to deny it. _You’re not well_ , he thinks. “You’re still recovering,” he says instead.

Dega’s getting angry. Henri’s nearly in awe of the sight of it--there’s _genuine anger_ in Dega’s eyes and it’s directed at _him_. It makes Henri all the more desperate to make him understand, and he doesn’t have the time to second-guess his instinct to be blunt.

“You were assaulted, and stabbed in the gut. And you’ve just lost your wife, for christ’s sake.”

Dega’s expression is so fierce that if it were anyone else Henri would think he was about to be struck. Dega only rubs hard at his mouth as if to keep riotous words inside. 

“Dega,” Henri starts, but hesitates because the name feels wrong on his tongue. He swallows down a soft _Louis_ , reluctant to use the man’s given name for the first time during an argument, but it echoes in his mind all the same. 

“Don’t,” is all that Dega has to say. 

“If I pushed--”

“You didn’t,” Dega snaps.

“I was being selfish.”

“Shut _up_ , Papi.”

Henri stares at him, stunned. In any other situation he might have found Dega telling him to shut his mouth endearing, but it sends a strike of fear into his heart now. He thinks of his hands on Dega’s hips, overlaying the bruises that have faded from Dega’s skin but linger starkly in Henri’s mind all the same.

“It’s okay to talk about it,” he says quietly. Dega looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “What Caimán--”

“What is it that you want to hear?” Dega throws it out like a challenge, but Henri doesn’t miss the tremble in his voice. He feels his face twist with pity and he doesn’t manage to hide it from Dega’s sharp eyes in time. “You were there for most of it. You saw--and heard. What it is that you want me to say? That it _hurt_?”

The hammering in Henri’s chest aches harder.

“That it hurt so much I thought it would kill me? That sometimes I wish it had?”

“Don’t,” Henri snaps, stomach knotted so tight he can barely breathe. He’s on his feet before he knows what he’s doing and he crowds in close, but he stops himself short of fisting Dega’s shirt in his unsteady hand. Dega juts his chin up and glares as if daring Henri to hit him. It grieves him deeply that Dega would want to be hurt, but it nearly kills him to know Dega would think him capable of it.

“Don’t say that,” he pleads, softer now. It does nothing to ease the frustration on Dega’s face.

“You wanted me to talk, Papillon.” 

Henri’s never heard Dega say his name like that, and the pain of it is nearly enough to make him back down and apologize. But he doesn’t. He can’t. “I know.” He’s still so close that he can trace the fine lines of grey and green in Dega’s enormous, angry eyes. “But don’t you dare say that you’d rather be dead.”

Dega pauses as if sharpening his tongue for cutting words. “What does it matter to you? You’ll be gone soon enough.”

“So will you,” Henri says quickly. Apprehension squeezes his heart when Dega’s eyes go distant. “Dega--”

“Clara’s dead.” Dega tries to turn away, but he’s caught between the railing and Henri and can’t escape without touching him. “And I have nothing left. I’ll uphold my end of our deal. I’ll ensure that you get out, but--”

“But what? You’re just going to give up?” Henri demands, getting angry again in spite of himself. “After everything, after all of this?”

Dega’s jaw clenches but he keeps his face angled away. Henri desperately wants to touch him, to draw him back with kind hands and soft words, but knows better than to try. Dega doesn’t want honeyed platitudes--he wants violence. Henri decides not to give him either. He turns away and slowly sits back down against the pillar, giving them both a moment of reprieve, and when he’s settled he looks up to find Dega hasn’t moved. He still stands against the railing as if pinned.

“You have me,” Henri says gruffly. 

Dega finally looks at him again, but his expression is closed off and cryptic.

“We’re going to get out of here together.”

“And then what?”

Dega’s voice is harsh, but desperation is disguised beneath the bitterness. Henri thinks of Nennete, curled naked and warm against him, snapping her teeth around _I love you_ and tracing her cherry-red nails across his chest. He thinks of the taste of Dega’s mouth and of a house in a quiet, green place, of lazy mornings and notebooks filled with lead sketches. 

“We’ll find a place. Anywhere you want.” 

Dega swallows hard. He looks like he isn’t sure if he wants to laugh or cry. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I know you’re hurting. I get it.” Henri tries to smile but the most he manages is a grimace. He thinks of the way Dega had looked up at him less than an hour ago, trust in his eyes, his dark hair tousled with sweat and the pathways that Henri’s starving fingers had carved, and he feels like grieving. “I don’t blame you for being angry.” He chews the words out, slow and deliberate. He looks at Dega and thinks him beautiful even in his gruesome cynicism. “Nennete would have bad days, too.”

“Oh,” Dega laughs and it’s an ugly sound, a thing meant to wound. “That’s what I need--to be compared to your whore,” he spits.

Henri stares. Dega’s eyes widen with realization, with regret, but crossing that line only seems to agitate him more. For a moment Henri can’t place the expression, can’t identify the way that Dega curls inward, but then he thinks of a cowering dog and he understands. Dega’s scared. He could deny it all he likes, but Henri recognizes the traces of animal-mad horror in his eyes. Everything in Henri aches at the sight of it.

“I’m not comparing,” he says quietly. It’s a lie, but it’s a necessary one. “I’m just saying--I get it.”

Dega regards him with disbelief, like it’s beyond his comprehension that Henri hasn’t raised a hand against him for what he’s said, for the way he’s said it, and so Henri keeps his voice warm and low. “Have I told you about the day I was arrested?” Henri knows that he hasn’t. “Nennete asked me to leave with her. She wanted me to take her out of the city. She said that we could get real jobs and live honest lives.” The side of Henri’s mouth twitches up in a parody of a smile. “I nearly laughed. I’m not sure I even knew she was serious at first.”

Dega doesn’t say anything but he’s listening closely, humbled by his own cruelty.

“I wanted to stay. I told her it was because of the money and that was a part of it. But the real reason was that I liked stealing more than I liked the idea of running away with her.” Henri shakes his head, feeling ill at the confession, and Dega drops his eyes to the floor. “She was a whore at Castili’s club. He didn’t treat her poorly, but, she was still a whore. She wanted to be more than that.”

Guilt contorts Dega’s face and Henri nearly stops, heart hurting, because he isn’t trying to shame him.

“Some part of me must have known how unhappy she was with that lifestyle. But I liked mine too much to stop.” Henri’s throat feels tight. “I told her six months. Six months, Dega. I said it like it was nothing, and I was stupid enough to be confused when she didn’t like that answer.”

“Papi...”

Henri’s heart gives a hopeful kick at the sound of Dega’s voice, but he doesn’t give him the chance to interrupt. He hasn’t made his point.

“Even if I had thought it through--even if I’d considered all the reasons she wanted to leave, if I’d thought about why she wouldn’t want to fuck other men while I lived the life _I_ wanted to live--I don’t know that it would have changed my mind.”

The admission makes him feel queasy with shame but there’s no judgement in Dega’s face, there’s only exhaustion left in the ravages of his anger.

“She loved me, and I loved being with her, but--a house in the country, an honest life? That wasn’t what I wanted.”

“And now?” Dega asks weakly, as if he doesn’t want to hear the answer.

“When we get out,” Henri says, so softly it may as well be a whisper. “We’ll find someplace quiet for a while. Just you and me.”

Dega looks pained. Henri opens his mouth, sweeter words at the ready, but the evening whistle shrieks out from below and he jerks in surprise. Dega’s big eyes blink quickly, the barely-there hope in his face faltering as though he’s waking from a dream. He gazes at Papi like he wants him to say something more but he turns and slips down the stairs, moving slinky-swift as a wary cat, before Henri can get his tongue to cooperate.

Henri follows him and doesn’t say another word.

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis wakes in the night, disoriented and aching. The injured muscles in his stomach twinge and remind him of what he’d done--of what _they’d_ done. It’s the ache of exertion and he thinks of the feeling of his back against the wall, his hands on Papillon’s face. He stutters in an unhappy breath as the memory of the rest of the evening falls into place. He feels sick with himself. He’s never spoken to anyone the way that he’d spoken to Papi-- _Papi_ , the person least deserving of his anger.

Louis doesn’t pursue the thought, too tired to indulge in even self-loathing. He can’t think of why he startled awake and he wonders if Papi had tried to rouse him, but when he rolls over onto his side he finds the other man sound asleep. Louis looks at him in the dark and curls his hands until his blunt nails bite into his palms. They’d laid down sore with one another and Louis had turned his back despite knowing how much Papi hates it, swallowing down a savage sort of satisfaction when Papi hadn’t tried to coax him into amenability. He now presses apologizes against the roof of his mouth, trying to find the words and the strength to wield them once Papi wakes up.

A noise from across the barrack has his heart pounding before he can process the source of the wet slap. His mouth goes dry. A lewd _squelch_ and a low moan has him breathing hard, thoughts scattering like frightened birds at a gunshot. 

Someone shuffles in their sleep from Papi’s other side and Louis feverishly struggles to sit up. The smell of old clothes and unwashed bodies hits him and he crushes a hand over his mouth to hold back the hot rush of bile that gathers in the back of his throat. His thoughts are disordered and he misplaces himself in time--he claws his left hand against the wall to reassure himself he’s not in El Caimán’s barrack, that he’s safe--

A hand presses to his back and he cringes away, bruising his ankles against the metal as he tries to escape the touch. 

“Sorry,” Papi hisses quietly, his hand flinching away as if burned.

Louis sucks air harshly in through his nose. He’s going to be sick. 

“What’s wrong?” 

A deep groan sounds out again and Louis’ muscles tense so violently he’s certain something’s going to snap inside of him. Papi makes a noise of surprise, or disgust, and Louis knows he must recognize the sound of someone masturbating across the way. It’s not the first time someone has pleasured himself in the night, not even the close, but it awakens a dumbing, wild fear in Louis now.

Even at a distance, he can hear slick flesh on flesh, can all but see a saliva-slippery hand pumping. Something in his chest flutters unpleasantly and he curls over his knees, certain he’s going to vomit on himself. Papi’s hand touches his back again, tentatively, and Louis fights to pull in a deep breath, and then another, one damp palm still clasped over his mouth. 

Louis can smell sweat, thinks he can smell Caimán, and he feels something in his chest constrict again. He needs to get up, needs to get _out_ , but he’s locked down tight. The panic bites back in, every bit as vicious as before, but he can only gulp in air and stare wide-eyed into the gloom. 

He’s going to be sick.

Papi’s wide hand continues to rub a circle along his back, grounding him in time, and after several agonizing minutes Louis starts to calm. His frantic panting eases out into deep, shuddering gasps and Papi withdraws, but Louis’ right hand snakes out and snatches his wrist and squeezes down hard. Papi doesn’t resist. He shifts closer and readjusts Louis’ grip until their hands are joined and then he squeezes back, keeping a gentle but steady pressure. 

An oblivious, trembling moan warbles out again but he ignores it.

Papi’s thumb strokes slowly.

Louis doesn’t throw up. 

He lies back down, sweating, and he doesn’t let go of Papi’s hand even though his fingertips are numb and he’s shaking badly enough that it’s almost difficult to hold on. Papi lies down beside him, curled on his left side, and Louis doesn’t need to be able to see in the dark to know that Papi’s face is twisted with pity.

He focuses on breathing. 

Papi murmurs to him, his voice low and sweet, but then someone moans his name loudly from somewhere in the blackness of the room. Louis’ breath catches in his throat and sticks. The voice came from a different direction as the masturbator and he dimly recognizes that someone is awake and well aware of his panic. Someone’s mocking him. He burns cold with humiliation. 

_”Dega,”_ comes another hateful, breathy sigh, and someone else mutters out a laugh. 

Papi shifts up onto his elbow and snarls out something that sounds like a threat, but Louis pulls his hand away from Papi’s in order to press his palms against his ears to tune it all out. His head pounds. Papi settles down next to him again after a while and he’s close enough that Louis can feel his breath his face. It doesn’t bother him in the way that he expects and he slowly lowers his hands from his head and tries to get his chest to stop hitching. 

It’s quiet, and he realizes that the noise has stopped--whoever had been pleasuring himself has either finished or given up. 

Papi reaches for him slowly. Louis doesn’t want to be touched but he doesn’t want to rebuff Papi either, so he freezes up as a gentle hand rests against the side of his head. His stomach drops. He used to enjoy having his hair touched but now it only elicits memories of Caimán, of being on his knees, and the shame and disgust that that triggers has him thoughtlessly digging his fingers into the still-tender scar on his stomach. He wants to push Papi away but he’s suddenly terrified it will be one rejection too many. After the terrible things Louis had said--

He startles when Papi angles closer. Louis doesn’t like this at first and he sucks in a scared breath, intent on telling him to let go, but then Papi wraps his arms around his head and pulls him toward his chest. Louis lays with his forehead pressed against the base of Papi’s throat. For a moment he’s so taken aback by the strangeness of it that he lies still, bewildered into a docile daze, and then he understands. The rest of the noise of the barrack isn’t blocked out, but it is muffled by Papi’s arms. Louis can hear little else but the steady _thump_ Papi’s heartbeat. 

He lets himself goes limp, bit by bit, and Papi relaxes too. Louis feels a wrench of guilt when realizes how tense the other man had been, and Papi’s arms tighten around him, protective. Louis wraps his fingers in the stomach of Papi’s shirt. 

It’s _cozy_. It makes him feel young and vulnerable.

He drinks a breath in through his teeth and abruptly pulls away. 

Papi lets him go--there’s no resistance, no hesitation, but Louis doesn’t doubt that he’s hurt by the sudden distance. Louis slowly takes off his glasses. He folds them up and clenches them in one hand, and then he presses in close again. He burrows his face back against Papi’s chest and doesn’t care that it feels silly. Papi’s arms immediately embrace his head again, as though glad to have something to hold. 

He realizes that Papi’s got his back to the rest of the room and for a moment he’s confounded by it. He can’t remember a time that Papi had fallen asleep like that, too wary of being defenseless and exposed, but then he understands that Papi intends to lie awake and hold him. It doesn’t seem fair, but Louis’ exhaustion is too deep to fight against the thought for more than a moment. He nestles in as close as he can get and goes to sleep.

✧ ✧ ✧

He wakes in Papillon’s arms to a bright but cool morning. Awareness trickles in slowly; he can feel a stray lick of sunlight on his shoulder and decides against opening his eyes just yet, content to lie still and consume the moment as best he can, captivated by the comfort of it all. 

He feels Papillon huff into his hair.

“I know you’re awake.” 

There’s a playfulness to Papi’s grumble and Louis decides that it’s okay to grunt and ignore him.

“My arm’s numb,” Papi complains, but he does nothing to push Louis away. If anything, he manages to curl in tighter.

“You’ll survive.” It’s a joke, but Louis hears the uncertainty in his own voice. Papi doesn’t seem angry, if anything he seems happy to lie with Louis plastered against him, but Louis knows it might not be that simple. Not after what he’s said. 

“I’m sorry,” he confesses against Papi’s skin.

Papi sucks in a breath. Louis expects to be pushed away, as if Papi had forgotten and the reminder proved to be too much, but he says nothing and secures his hold when Louis shifts apprehensively.

“Me too,” Papi says at last.

“What I said--”

“It’s alright.”

“It’s not,” Louis argues morosely. “I was out of line.”

“Yeah.” Papillon agrees, but he says it lightly, like he’s taking the path of least resistance. Louis somehow isn’t surprised when he follows that up with, “but it’s okay.”

Louis feels a spot of sunlight warm the side of his face. He buries his nose deeper into Papi’s shoulder. 

“I shouldn’t have pushed,” he hears Papi rumble after a minute of contemplation. 

“No, you shouldn’t have.” Louis accomplishes a proper deadpan despite having his face smothered against Papi, and when Papi chuckles he can feel the vibration of it through his chest. “But it’s okay.”

It’s getting too warm to lie pressed together but he lets Papi squeeze him tighter. Louis thinks he could fall asleep again if he wanted but he fights the allure of drifting off in favor of memorizing the feel of having Papillon enveloped around him. Papi makes a humming sound and shifts slightly, leaving Louis to wonder if he’s lost his own battle against falling back into a doze. 

He traces his mind feather-light over their argument and murmurs, half hoping that Papi is asleep, “I don’t regret it.”

“Hm?” Papi begins absently stroking one of his hands along Louis’ back.

The sensation of it is novel and Louis’ lungs fill as he tries to fight off a wave of some happy, unknowable feeling. He’d held Clara like this often, wrapped around her through lazy mornings, resting his face in her soft hair and running his fingers over her spine. He wonders if she’d felt the way he does now--loose-limbed with the simple pleasure of it. 

“I don’t regret it,” he repeats, muzzly and on still the edge of surrendering to sleep. “Being with you. If that’s what you were thinking.”

Papi goes still and Louis wonders if he’s said the wrong thing. But then he feels Papi swallow and his hand resumes it’s lazy path along his back. Louis sighs out.

“Good.” Papillon sounds stilted, like he’s been caught off guard, and Louis realizes that that had been _exactly_ what Papi had been afraid of.

The thought of Papi being so distressed at the prospect of being a regretful memory, it makes Louis shift away until he can unfold his glasses and put them on. The dawn-soft world sharpens and he finds Papi regarding him quietly. Papi must see something in his face, some harrowing fondness, because he smiles and playfully pulls Louis back against his chest.

“What happened to your arm being numb?” Louis grouses, but he’s pleased and knows that Papi knows it, too. 

Papi goes back to stroking his back in lieu of answering and Louis finds that he’s very much okay with that. He allows himself to bask in the easy luxury of it for a while, even though it’s less comfortable with his glasses on.

“I meant it, you know,” Papillon says after Louis shifts to ease the pressure of the frame against the side of his face, betraying that he’s still awake.

“About what, your arm?” Louis jokes. 

Papi snorts out an exhale, like he’s trying to hide that he’s amused. “No.” He hesitates and Louis lets himself wonder when Papillon of all people had become so shy. “About us.”

Louis holds perfectly still. He listens to the slow beat of Papi’s heart through his chest and opens his eyes even though they’re laying too closely together for Louis to see much of anything.

“A house in the country, was it?” He tastes the words, learns the feel of them in his mouth. “Not sure I’m one for country living.”

“You could paint.”

Louis puffs out a laugh at that. “We both know I’m not any good. I’m a forger, not an artist. But,” he segues quickly, before Papi can interrupt with a platitude, “I’ve always wanted a garden.”

“Then we’ll have one. Anywhere you want.”

They both pretend to drift after that, but Louis keeps his eyes open and stares at the abstract, golden blur of Papi in the morning sun. 

“Amsterdam,” he murmurs against Papi’s throat.

“Amsterdam,” Papi whispers back, and it sounds like a promise.

Louis feels a chilled touch of despair, understanding it will be one that he can’t keep, but he smiles and knows that Papi can feel that on his skin.

✧ ✧ ✧

Henri’s exhausted. He had laid awake most of the night with Dega and he doesn’t regret a moment of it, especially not after their effortless camaraderie that morning, but after the Route he feels the aches from a day’s worth of hard labor all the more distinctly. 

He showers and thinks about Dega’s whiplash mood swings and tries not to worry--overthinking had gotten him twisted up tight the night before and he suspects that his hen-pecking had riled Dega beyond reason. If their situations were reversed he doesn’t doubt that he’d have reacted in much the same way, and he scrubs the grime from his neck and realizes that he has to let Dega set the pace. He’s can’t push. And while he can’t bring himself to trust in Dega’s _I’m fine_ routine yet, he knows now that he can look forward to that day that that is true.

Until then, he can be patient.

He rolls his shoulders and pulls his shirt back on, skin still damp from his shower, and he’s surprised to find Cormier waiting for him beyond the gate. Henri eyes him warily. Cormier had kept his distance, seemingly knowing better than to approach over the last few weeks, and Henri doesn’t know what to make of that. He thinks he should probably be grateful that Cormier had the tact to give Dega space but instead he finds it suspicious. 

He narrows his eyes at Cormier as the guard opens the gate, and then he keeps walking. It’s rude, but he takes a certain satisfaction in making Cormier catch up. The other man hovers a step behind and keeps pace easily enough.

“Not going to the infirmary today?” Cormier asks lightly--too lightly--and Henri only gives him a one-shouldered shrug. “I see.”

Henri’s craving a cigarette but he doesn’t want to loiter where Cormier’s eyes can find him. He has a bit of time and he knows that Dega will wait behind the hospital gate until he arrives, so he decides to detour to what has become _their_ spot behind the storage zone to have a smoke. 

He doesn’t get far before Cormier rumbles out, “and Dega?”

 _Not Mr. Dega when he’s not here, huh?_ Henri thinks sarcastically, and he turns to regard Cormier with an aggressive sort of nonchalance. “Working late today, fever’s going around.” It’s not a particularly good lie but he’s pleased when Cormier easily accepts the deception. 

Cormier doesn’t leave, though. He stands and stares with those hatefully empty eyes of his and Henri feels himself bristle. “There something I can help you with?”

Cormier doesn’t blink. He watches Henri and Henri gazes steadily back, unintimidated, until Cormier’s gaze flicks away. Henri turns and starts walking again without another word, pulling out a cigarette and his box of matches, and he’s relieved when footsteps don’t follow him down the alleyway.

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis waits at the exterior infirmary gate and absently scans dirty faces as he waits for Papillon. A few men return his stare but no one dares to approach, not with a guard loitering lazily at the side of the gate with him, though Louis knows that they’d love to saunter over, hang their arms casually through the bars, and crack an obscene joke. _When do I get my turn? ‘Got something for you if you’re missing that capsule._ Ever since Caimán, it happens whenever he’s out from under Papi’s shadow and Louis has had to harden his heart against it. 

He turns away from a stranger’s leer and adjusts his glasses.

“Hot today,” the guard comments blandly, and Louis turns to him in surprise. He thinks it’s the first time he’s heard his voice, despite the fact that the man is stationed at the infirmary five days a week.

“Yes,” he agrees immediately and without thought, even though the heat seems no better or worse than any other day under the French Guianese sun.

“Storm’s out over the sea, they say.”

 _Small talk_ , Louis marvels in vague astonishment. And from a man who hadn’t so much as returned a single nod of acknowledgment in the weeks that Louis’ been working at the hospital. 

“Better cool things down,” the guard says, eyes searching the courtyard beyond the infirmary, as if it’s habit to try to sniff out trouble while talking about the weather. Louis supposes that it probably is and settles for a low hum of agreement, struggling not to show his astonishment. 

“Or it’ll make this damn place worse.”

“Worse?” Louis asks politely.

“More humid.”

“Ah. Yes. Well.” Louis feels the edge of amusement creep in. “You’re probably right about that.”

It’s the most painfully awkward conversation that Louis can remember having, but the guard doesn’t seem to care either way. _He must be bored out of his mind_ , Louis realizes. “The rain will be nice,” he says, “despite the humidity.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s so different from back home,” Louis murmurs wistfully, hoping to stir a sense of bittersweet solidarity. 

“This fucking place,” the guard grumbles in what could be agreement. He wipes the back of his hand under his pith helmet and it comes away damp. His eyes move sluggishly between convicts, never settling on anyone for more than a moment.

“Marseille could get humid in the summer, but nothing like this. It’s dreadful.”

“Bordeaux, too.”

Louis glows with a secret triumph. “Perhaps that’s what makes the wine so exquisite there.” That’s not true. He knows that high humidity can rot grapes on the vine, but he’s convinced that he can play stupid if the guard knows enough to contradict him. And, he thinks with a polite smile, _that_ would be an opportunity to humble himself to the guard’s expertise, at the very least.

The guard’s blonde mustache twitches as he thinks the statement over, but if he knows Louis is bullshitting him he doesn’t show it. “You’ve been?”

“Oh, yes. Often,” he lies. He’s been there once, and while he enjoyed it he’s never spared a thought for returning. “It’s beautiful.”

The guard shrugs, but the tension leeches from his shoulders.

Louis sorts through his memories of Bordeaux and tries to find a topic of easy agreement, hoping to capitalize on the moment, but he catches sight of Celier prowling the courtyard beyond the infirmary and jerks back a step, half-hiding behind the towering concrete support beside the bars. Celier’s clearly looking for someone but he doesn’t give the hospital more than a cursory glance, and Louis exhales when there’s no indication that he’s been seen. _He’s searching for Papi,_ Louis realizes, pulling his lower lip between his teeth. 

Louis knows of Papi’s proclivity for an afternoon cigarette--if he’s not waiting for Louis at the gate, he’s either on the walkway or behind the buildings. He doesn’t know if Celier knows this, but assumes not from the way that Celier stalks in the opposite direction as the storage quadrant. He turns to the guard, hoping to leave and find Papi first, but hesitates when he finds the other man watching him curiously.

The guard’s head turns and Louis watches his eyes track Celier.

Louis feels his stomach knot and his brow twitch lower, afraid of what the guard might be thinking, but Louis can’t read anything in the apathy he finds in his face. The guard looks back at him after a moment and then rests a hand on the metal set of keys at his waist.

“You leaving?”

“Yes, thank you.”

The guard opens the gate for Louis and gives him a companionable nod as he ducks his head and passes through. _Unexpected_ , Louis thinks as he turns back to aim a small, grateful smile like a weapon. The guard doesn’t smile back, but he’s not frowning anymore, either--he simply turns and retreats into the shade afforded by the interior of the infirmary. Louis stares at his back for a moment, thoughtful, and then makes his way to the storage buildings at a quick clip, pondering the possibilities of adding the guard as a piece of the jigsaw-puzzle plan in his mind as he walks. He smells tobacco smoke as he nears and he smiles, glad his gut feeling had been correct, but he turns the corner and reels back in alarm, heart seizing.

He doesn’t try to make sense of what he’s seeing. He lurches forward before he can think better of it, terror numbing his fingers as he digs them into Cormier’s fleshy arm. Louis shouts and tugs, digging his heels into the dirt, but Cormier doesn’t so much as glance at him. He twists a strip of cloth tighter around Papillon’s neck, pulling so hard that his knuckles have gone white, and Papi thrashes, trying to claw and kick as Cormier strangles him from behind.

Louis is nearly struck dumb with helplessness. 

His short nails have raked lines in Cormier’s forearms but it doesn’t even faze him--Cormier’s bulging eyes stay locked on the back of Papillon’s head, lip curled in a noiseless snarl.

Louis panics and sinks his teeth into Cormier’s wrist. There’s a pained grunt and Louis bears down harder, biting through skin and tasting blood and sweat, and he scratches at Cormier’s sausage-thick fingers. Cormier lets go with a shout and Louis tries to stagger away, clenching the long strip of an old prison uniform in his quaking hands. 

He drops it when Cormier slaps him across the face.

✧ ✧ ✧

Henri wheezes, clutching at this aching neck, as he struggles up to his knees. The world spins sickeningly and his lungs burn, eyesight blurring grey, and for a moment he can only watch helplessly as Cormier struggles with Dega. The image is transposed with another--Caimán, ribbons of water snaking through mud, naked flesh. 

Bile gushes into the back his abused throat. 

His breath stutters in his chest as he watches Dega’s back hit the wall and Cormier’s arm curl forward in a whip of motion. Cormier strikes Dega in the ribs and it’s a warning blow, obviously at half-strength at worst, but Henri’s eyes catch at the way Cormier’s dark hair flops over the shaved skin on the back of his head, at the way the flesh of his cheek shivers as he grits his teeth and grimaces, and a memory breaks across him like a punch.

Henri nearly closes his eyes in an agonizing moment of realization.

Cormier growls out a command at Dega to stay down and Henri drags a full breath into his screaming lungs. Cormier’s got Dega’s shirt in a monstrous grip and he’s clearly not pleased at the insolence in Dega’s wide, angry eyes, and Henri has to fight down another nauseating wave of déjà vu.

“Hey,” he barks, his throat protesting at the force he has to use to be heard. 

Cormier turns his head slowly, enmity and sweat lining the deep grooves of his face, and Henri shows his teeth in a smile. 

“Remember you now.”

Cormier keeps his black gaze fixed on him, and Henri blinks the sun from his eyes and watches as the malice is pulled back behind the veil. Dega squirms, digging his fingers into Cormier’s arm, and Henri grinds his teeth. 

“You can let him go,” he says, still smiling in the most unpleasant way he knows how. He’s only distantly surprised when Cormier actually lowers his hand, though he doesn’t unfist it from Dega’s shirt. 

“I get it now.” Henri says, rubbing ruefully at this neck. 

“Good,” Cormier replies. His voice is placid, like the surface of still, deep water. “I’m glad to hear you know why you’re going to die. I hope that makes it easier for you.”

It’s a macabre joke, or at least the closest that a thug like Cormier can come to one. Henri stays down on his knees and ignores the threat. “You can let him go,” he says again, stronger now that he’s caught his breath and adjusted to the raw burn in his throat. Sweat runs down his back. “If this is to get at me--”

Cormier turns to look at Dega, who has gone still in his confusion, and when the larger man turns back to Henri he seems morbidly amused. “You’ve misunderstood, Papillon. He wants you dead, but he also wants his pet forger delivered.”

Henri’s smile falters. He stares, paralyzed with new dread, as Cormier slowly uncurls his fingers from Dega’s shirt. Dega immediately stumbles away to Henri’s side. He tugs at Henri’s arm with surprising strength, until Henri groans and allows himself to be pulled up to his feet. Dega stays tucked in close, his eyes on Cormier, his hands spread protectively over Henri’s side and back. Henri risks a quick glance and feels his chest tighten at the sight of blood smeared across Dega’s mouth and blotted against the white of his shirt.

“What are you talking about?” Dega asks, his voice a rumble of hostility. 

Cormier looks slowly between them, unconcerned, and when he speaks he addresses Henri with a smug sort of self-satisfaction. “Come now, Papillon. Did you really think you’d be sent here and it would be left at that?”

Henri clenches his teeth hard enough to hurt and he ignores the nervous look Dega sends his way. Cormier suddenly dips his head to frown down at his wrist, which is streaked red. “He’d been hoping you’d get yourself killed with that smart mouth of yours. But at the very least, it was expected you’d rot here for the rest of your life.” Cormier turns his arm and curls his lip in anger at the torn skin he finds. When he looks up, Henri finds his eyes bright with a promise of violence. “And then Mr. Castili heard you were doing just fine. Had your own little whore. Someone with enough wealth to fund an escape.”

Henri feels Dega go tense beside him as Cormier takes a step closer, radiating patient animosity.

“At first Mr. Castili wanted your partner tortured and killed in front of you. Something nice and slow. And then for you to meet a similar end,” Cormier informs Henri calmly. “But then he found out _who_ it was that you’d roped into your scheme.”

Henri can hear Dega swallow hard, but he doesn’t interrupt. Cormier’s eyes slide over to Dega.

“He called it a good deal. A chance to see the man who cheated him punished once and for all, and an opportunity to get a talented forger in his back pocket.”

“How,” Dega finally rasps out, “how does your employer know _any_ of this?”

“Mr. Castili has eyes everywhere.”

Henri doesn’t doubt that. It feels like the ground has dropped out from beneath him, like he’s going to throw up, and Dega presses in closer as Cormier advances another step. Cormier’s hands ball up into massive fists, the same ones that had beaten one of Castili’s pimps to death. Henri abruptly shoves Dega away and sways, raising his arms to defend himself. Cormier’s eyes widen in anticipation but Dega is quick to launch himself back between them, and Henri grabs at him in a panic, ready to hurt him if it means getting him out of Cormier’s path. Dega manages to hold his ground for long enough to make it matter.

“Killing him will get you nothing,” Dega grits out slowly. “If you hurt him, I will have _nothing_ to do with your employer.”

Cormier stops dead in his tracks in surprise. Henri pulls Dega in closer. _That won’t work_. His mind races. _He won’t buy that--_

“What does your employer want more?” Dega asks with quiet venom in his voice, and there’s steel there Henri that didn’t know that he possessed.

He expects Cormier to laugh, to put an end to negotiation and put his fist through Henri’s teeth, but the other man blinks his blank eyes and thinks the question over. Henri abruptly does the same. In a daze, he realizes that for as vengeful as Castili is, he’s also a shrewd businessman. He wants Henri dead _and_ he wants Dega under his thumb. He won’t settle for one over the other. 

Cormier’s nostrils flare. He’s angry, but there’s a stillness in his fury that speaks volumes and Henri reads it in his face: Castili will not forgive failure. He suddenly understands that Cormier is in French Guiana for a reason--he’s already fucked up somehow, and he’s one step away from being in Henri’s position himself.

“Tell him,” Dega orders, vicious in his strange confidence. “Tell this Castili exactly that, and then you find me and tell me his answer.”

Cormier’s face tightens with barely restrained violence. He slowly looks down at his bleeding wrist again, and then his eyes flick back up to consider the arrogance on Dega’s face. He stares for a long time.

“If Mr. Castili decides that you’re not worth the trouble,” he says evenly, his low voice dripping thick with malevolence, “I will make it slow. For the pair of you.” His eyes don’t leave Dega’s face. “And you will be first.”

Dega’s red mouth twists. It might’ve been a smile if not for the spiteful edge to it. Henri squeezes his arm in an effort to rein him in, visions of the pimp, gagged and bloody, lingering behind his eyelids. 

Dega obediently keeps his mouth shut and Cormier regards them with impressive indifference. He straightens his clothes, runs a big hand through his hair to smooth it back, slicked flat with sweat. He glances at his mangled wrist again as he lowers his arm and sends Dega an unreadable look. He works his jaw, as though to say something more, but instead pushes past Henri with a jarring collision to his shoulder.

There’s a beat of hesitation and then Dega grips onto Henri again. Neither speak, not even after Cormier’s bulky silhouette disappears around the corner. 

Henri wants to leave, wants to find someplace safe, but he can’t bring himself to take a step. He sinks back down to his knees and Dega allows himself to be dragged down, too. They sit pressed against one another, sweating. Henri sucks in a breath, and then another.

“Dega,” he starts, but has to stop to swallow a few times, the ache in his throat returning full-force now that the high of the fight is waning thin. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Probably not,” Dega drawls in a deadpan, in a way that says, _I would do it again_. He sounds remarkably calm, but his hands betray him. Henri feels the fine tremors where his fingertips are pressed into Henri’s skin.

He thinks of Cormier’s wrist and the blood on Dega’s mouth.

He frowns.

“Did you bite him?” he asks with dismay, and then there’s a hesitation in which Dega pulls away to adjust his glasses and the collar of his rumpled shirt, frowning down at the constellation of dark droplets down the front. When he finally speaks he’s breathless with embarrassment.

“Yes.”

Henri barks out a shaky laugh, even though he still feels like he’s about to throw his guts up right into his lap. He reaches out and pulls Dega in close again by the back of the neck. “Shit,” he croaks, “I’ve really gotta teach you how to throw a punch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this house we don't make ocs when there are perfectly good nameless background characters to choose from.


	11. Onze

A storm rolls in from the sea, just as some nameless guard from Bordeaux had predicted. Louis lies curled on his side and listens to the muted pattering against the barrack wall, tracing his eyes over the red line on Papillon’s throat. He knows it’ll turn plum-dark over the next day or two and he feels a tight cramp in his stomach at the thought of _what if?_ What if he had waited and hadn’t gone to find Papi, if he’d been held up by the doctor or the guard, what if he’d been too slow--?

“You’re thinking too loud, Dega.”

Louis makes a noise of disbelief because Papi isn’t even looking at him. Papi’s mouth curls and he angles his head, stretching out on his back as if there was a way to get comfortable on the concrete. 

“What are you thinking about?” Papi asks after a moment, once it becomes obvious that Louis isn’t going to be led into a debate that easily.

“I was thinking,” Louis lies, in a low voice, “that it’s too bad that the lights are still on, because I’d like to touch you.”

Papi’s face changes, lightning quick. Louis isn’t sure what Papi had been expecting to hear but it’s not that, and he’s gratified that he’s caught Papi by surprise. He watches as Papi searches his face with a childish sort of eagerness. Louis knows he’s about to be teased as Papi shifts onto his side so that they’re face to face. 

“So you’re the shy sort, then.”

Louis smiles at the challenge but he doesn’t yet have the nerve to act on it. “I value discretion,” he drawls.

Papi hasn’t touched him yet either, and Louis isn’t sure if it’s because he doesn’t want to or if he’s trying to bait Louis into being the first one to reach out. 

“Dega, they already think--”

“I know.”

“What’s the problem, then?”

 _It’ll be lights-out soon enough,_ Louis thinks, but doesn’t point that out. He could wait until they’re locked down and the gloom is allowed to rush in, but he listens to the rain begin to pour in earnest and he reaches out to lightly stroke a fingertip along the red mark that collars Papi’s throat. His skin is warm, and softer than Louis thought it would be. 

Papi makes a noise and it’s hardly more than an exhale but it gets Louis’ heart pounding. He watches his own brown finger run along the hard definition of Papi’s collarbone and he marvels at the sight. 

“We should talk about Cormier,” he murmurs.

Papi sucks in a hard breath and Louis steals a glance up at his face through his eyelashes. 

“Right now?” Papi grunts. 

Louis’ finger drags a slow path up the side of Papi’s neck and he only spares one nervous thought for if someone else could see it, should they glance over. “Yes.” He ghosts over the stubble on Papi’s jaw and wants to lean in and rub his face against it, and feels silly for the thought. “He said that this Castili has other eyes inside of the prison.”

Papi grunts again, obviously reluctant to engage in conversation about his old boss while Louis is touching him so softly. Louis pulls his hand away to remove the distraction, and Papi is quick to grab it and hold it in his own. Louis doesn’t try to tug away and instead shifts closer as the wind picks up, whispering through the bars, delightfully cool. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Papi grumbles. “I should have known--”

“How could you have?” Louis asks with a touch of amusement and a touch of dread. Papillon had given him a brief rundown of what had happened between him and his ex-employer, and how he’d wound up on the boat with Louis. “If they wanted you dead, they would have killed you in Paris. They sent you here to punish you, and here you are. Why would you think they would be keeping watch?”

Papi shrugs one shoulder and begins stroking his thumb along the back of Louis’ hand. “Either way, he must have already had someone set up here, even before I got arrested.”

“Yes,” Louis says slowly, “that does seem to be the case.”

Papi’s frown deepens and Louis feels regret for having put it there. “It’s like this place is Castili’s personal dumping ground. And he has the connections to pull it off--cops, pimps, mobsters. He probably has some politicians in his pocket, too.” Papi pulls in a slow breath. “Whoever was watching us before Cormier, I think it’s a guard.”

“I was thinking the same,” Louis admits, anxiety twisting his stomach. He thinks of the infirmary guard’s peculiar shift in behavior but doesn’t bring it up.

“Cormier said that Caimán was caught trying to escape, but I asked around--no one saw anything. He was just gone. Likely just grabbed him and threw him in Île Saint-Joseph. Warden wouldn’t ask too many questions.”

Louis nods, lowering his eyes to hide the mixed feelings that the mention of Caimán’s sentence stirs. Papi strokes his hand and seems to know anyway. Louis’ gaze lands on the angry line across his throat again and he draws in a long breath, starting to feel sick.

“He was going to kill you,” he rasps quietly.

“Yeah.” The admission is muted, almost indifferent, and that riles Louis.

“He was _strangling_ you.”

Papi swallows like he can still feel the cloth around his neck. “Guess he didn’t want to get blood on him.”

Louis feels lightheaded and tries to draw away, ill at the thought of finding Papillon dead behind the buildings, but Papi doesn’t let him retreat so easily. He keeps their hands clasped tight and offers a smile. 

“You saved my life,” he says begrudgingly, like it’s a game and Louis scored a point unexpectedly. Louis’ mouth quirks because Papi’s still got a substantial lead.

“Don’t get used to it,” Louis warns. “You’re supposed to be the one protecting me, after all.”

Papi smiles, but doesn’t bite onto the hook like Louis had been expecting. He searches Papi’s eyes, which look dark in the weak lamplight of the barracks, and finds a quiet devotion there.

“I was scared,” Louis admits. He finds that saying it out loud does nothing to banish the cold prickle in his chest.

Papi’s brow furrows. His free hand raises to brush barely-there across Louis’ cheek. A stray lash of wind sprays rain in through the window but Louis hardly feels the chilly touch of it. “He hit you,” Papi mutters. “You okay?”

Louis blinks. “He did.” He’d forgotten. “Twice.” Papi starts to look angry but Louis is quick to reassure him. “I can hardly feel it though, he must have pulled his punch. And his slap, I suppose.”

“He _slapped_ you?”

“Only after I bit him,” Louis says dryly. 

“Right.” Now Papi looks like he wants to laugh. Instead, he brings his hand down to thumb at Louis’ lower lip, and Louis feels blood rush to his face. He feels his mouth part as if he’s preparing to say something, and the pad of Papi’s thumb sweeps like he means to explore the wet heat inside, but the rumble of a familiar voice and the clink of metal alerts them to the arrival of the turnkey. Louis blinks and watches Papi blink back at him. Papi pulls his hand away slowly, like he’s hoping that Louis will grab his wrist and draw it back, take his thumb into his mouth and bite down, and Louis’ face burns at the thought. 

They’re locked down and the lights give a low hum as they’re shut off. Louis lies on his back, blinking against the blackness, trying to focus on the sound of the rising storm over the hard thud in his chest. He’s embarrassed and he hates that Papillon knows it. 

Papi reaches for him after a few minutes of listening to the other inmates rustle as they settle in. He lies facing Louis and walks his fingertips over the sensitive skin on the inside of his elbow. 

“Tell me about Castili,” Louis murmurs. Papi’s hand goes still and he feels a puff of breath against the side of his face. 

“Why?” 

Louis is glad that Papi can’t see the almost-smile that his terseness elicits. He genuinely wants to know about Castili, _needs_ to know, but there’s also a certain delight in teasing Papi. “If I’m going to be working with him--”

“You’re not,” Papi grits out. He tugs Louis closer and Louis grumbles out a protest and shifts until he’s as comfortable as he can get against the concrete, with his ankles pinned. 

“I might have to. You know that.”

“Dega.” Papi’s anger is genuine now, but Louis is fairly certain it’s not aimed at him. “That’s not going to happen.”

Louis exhales slowly, then groans and rolls onto his side. His eyes haven’t adjusted yet but he pretends that he can see Papillon’s face. He imagines he looks frustrated, and maybe a little scared. “Okay, but we should be prepared for the worst,” he says, but they both know that that’s as good as a lie. The truth is that their other plans aren’t ones that can reasonably include Louis--he’s not on the Route anymore, and escaping from inside the prison walls is all but impossible. He knows that Papi fights the thought tooth and claw, but Cormer-- _Castili_ \--is Louis’ only real hope of leaving the penal colony alive. 

Papi makes a noncommittal noise. 

“What’s he like?” Louis asks. There’s a pause and he thinks Papi’s going to ignore the question, but then he sighs and relents.

“He’s complicated.”

Louis hums and puts his hand on Papillon’s chest, stroking at the rough fabric of his shirt, as though to reward him for that concession. “How so?”

“He was generous,” Papi grits out reluctantly. “His information was always good, and he paid me well when I delivered.” Louis nods absently--he can work with that. “He was quick to turn on me, but I turned on him first.” They’re both a little surprised that Papi manages to make that admission. “He warned me, more than once, and I flaunted the fact I was skimming off the top right outside of his club.”

That surprises Louis. He’s glad Papi can’t see his face in the dark, but somehow Papi senses it anyway.

“I know,” he says gruffly. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“You don’t,” Louis protests. 

“It was stupid.”

“It was. But that’s not what I was thinking.”

Papi scoffs, but Louis tugs at his shirt to shut him up.

“I was thinking that I’m glad that you’re alive.” Louis is satisfied when Papi falls quiet for a moment.

“No matter what Castili tells Cormier--”

“I know,” Louis says, pained. “He still intends to kill you.”

Papillon nods and then shifts closer, tucking Louis’ head under his chin. 

“He’ll wait to try again until I walk out of that gate,” Louis whispers. Papi squeezes tighter as though to shut him up. “But you won’t be here when that happens. You’ll already be free.”

Louis expects a reprimand for reminding Papi of their inevitable separation, maybe even for Papi to pull away, and when he doesn’t it feels right to Louis to press in closer. It’s not cold but it’s one of the cooler nights that they’ve had, and for once it’s comfortable to lie flush together. 

“We’ll figure it out,” Papi says quietly. 

Louis doesn’t argue.

✧ ✧ ✧

Henri drifts in a state of half-sleep, straddling reality and a bad dream as the temperature drops and wind whistles through the barrack, and he feels an odd rush of gratitude when Dega sighs against the back of his neck and huddles in closer. Henri thinks he must be on the edge of sleep too, but then he feels a tentative touch, the press of hesitant fingers slotting between his ribs. Henri holds his breath and when he whispers it out it sounds like Dega’s name. Encouraged, Dega’s hand trails with obvious interest.

There’s electricity beneath his wandering fingers and Henri feels the crackle of it on his skin. He’s careful to hold still, as if Dega’s a rare bird that will startle and take flight if he moves the wrong way, and he has to close his hands into fists to keep from reaching for him. Dega would resent him for it if he knew, but Henri thinks of Nennete--of the nights in which she’d felt unmoored and angry, when she had wanted him but hadn’t wanted to surrender to their usual tenderness, the times that she’d tied his hands down with her stockings or his belt. He feels his heart throb in eagerly his throat and wonders if Dega would ever want to do the same. He thinks it’s possible. A thrill crawls up his spine when he wonders if Dega would ever trust him enough to let Henri pin his hands and take control.

“Can I touch you?”

Dega’s voice is so small that Henri is half-afraid that he imagined it. 

“You’d better,” he jokes, and he only feels a little bit embarrassed at how strained he sounds, like his throat’s about to close up in anticipation. 

Dega makes a noise of amusement, and then he presses his warm palm against Henri’s hip. Henri hisses out in satisfaction as Dega’s capable fingers roam, stroking the definition of muscle at his stomach, seemingly pleased at what he finds, and Henri wants to preen at the caressing scrutiny. When Dega dips into his pants and finally takes him into his hand, Henri’s breathing hard, and he’s glad that the roar of rain and wind against the wall is nearly enough to drown him out. Dega’s hand strokes lazily and it’s not long before Henri starts to feel like he’s being teased, but when he begins to shift his hips restlessly Dega’s hand goes still. Henri hesitates, and then he understands the game. He takes his lip between his teeth to keep from laughing, to keep from protesting the loss of friction, to keep from trying to return the favor.

Dega starts to move again, and his hand is warm and dry but he touches Henri lightly enough that it doesn't chafe. His breath ghosts over the back of Henri’s neck, over the shell of his ear, and then his thumb rubs hard at the slit. Henri jerks, once, and then holds his breath, fearful Dega will pull away, but Dega only does it again and Henri hums with his mouth closed to keep from groaning. Dega's fingers are wide and rougher than Henri's had in a while, lightly calloused, but Dega's ministrations are so delicate it makes something in Henri's chest ache. 

His arms feel empty, his hands restless. He wants to grab hold of some part of Dega but instinctively knows better than to turn around and try. Dega’s still moving slow and sweet, as if hoping to imprint the feel of himself onto Henri’s skin. He presses his mouth behind Henri’s ear and Henri closes his eyes and pretends that they're somewhere else. Dega pushes hem of his pants down and Henri pulls in slow, even breaths as he's exposed. The night is temperamental, and he thinks the cover of darkness and the lullaby of pouring rain makes Dega bold. 

Dega's picking up his rhythm now, and there's enough precome to ease the way. He can feel that Dega's firm against him, can hear his breathing pick up, and he squeezes and pulls until Henri's gasping too. He knows that Dega's touching himself now, though he can hardly spare a thought for how uncomfortable the angle must be. Henri imagines the sight of his cock slipping in and out of Dega's fist and a low, guttural sound escapes him. Dega's breath stutters in response and but he bites off his own noise of satisfaction, as though afraid to seem overeager. Henri gives another low, appreciative moan to coax him. 

Dega huffs out a breath and scrapes his teeth along the junction of Henri’s shoulder and neck, and Henri has to restrain himself from reaching back and grabbing a handful of Dega’s soft hair.

"Dega," Henri encourages in a rough whisper, reaching down to grip at Dega’s wrist. 

He’s sweating through his shirt and he makes a wet noise in the back of his throat when Dega clenches his hand and _twists_. He jerks recklessly as he spills over Dega’s fist and arches, squeezing down on Dega’s arm until his hand aches.

Dega bites his shoulder when he comes. 

They both pant through the aftermath, skin tingling with aftershocks. Henri stares wide-eyed into the dark and waits as the low roar in his ears fades.

His shirt is bunched up under him and it’s uncomfortable, but he’s blissed out and boneless and not willing to move an inch. Dega’s fingers feel hot and tacky against Henri’s oversensitive skin but he still mourns the loss of that contact when Dega lifts his hand. He peels his fingers from Dega’s wrist with great reluctance when he feels him pull away, and he half-turns, disappointed at the distance, until he feels one of their work shirts glide over his hip. 

Dega cleans him, broadcasting uncertainty.

Henri waits until Dega's cleaned himself as well and tossed the shirt to the floor, and then he reclaims Dega’s wrist in a loose hold and rolls over to face him. It's dark enough that Dega's just a shape in the gloom, and Henri fiercely wishes that he could see him clearly. He settles for finding his mouth and drinking him in.

Dega inhales noisily and then melts into him with something like relief. Henri's not sure what Dega would have to be relieved about--Henri's positive he knows that his touch is more than welcome. He kisses him again, lightly, and it's a reassurance--a promise. His fingertips roam under Dega's shirt, grazing lightly over his boney ribs, and Dega hums against his lips and softens. He lies warm and relaxed against Henri now, truly at ease for the first time that night, and Henri affectionately wonders what's going on in his head.

"Thank you," he breathes. It feels a little silly to thank Dega for a quick handjob in the middle of the night, but he's sincere in his gratitude. Dega huffs out through his nose, a silent laugh, and Henri finds himself smiling. He takes Dega's hand and curls their fingers together.

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis wakes up with his face smashed into someone's shoulder. His glasses are tucked safely into his work pants in the corner behind him, but he knows it's Papillon, knows it by the smell of him, by the way he sometimes murmurs quietly in his sleep, as though he's having a good dream. 

Louis lifts his head and tries to blink the darkness from his eyes, but it's still too early for any light to ease the oppressive blackness. For a moment he expects to feel a familiar cloying panic creep up his spine, but he only feels tired and a little gross. He shifts and grimaces. A dry shirt really wasn't the most effective thing to clean with. He lightly settles his head back down against Papi's shoulder and plans to demand a shower first thing in the morning, and he startles when Papi moves. His hand reaches out and slowly takes Louis' wrist and pulls until Louis’ arm settles around his waist. Louis blinks and settles in. It feels nice. It also feels a little bit embarrassing--it makes him feel like a shy teenager, feeling out the boundaries with a first lover.

"Sorry," he breathes out, "did I wake you?"

"No," Papi denies, and Louis' mouth curls into a smile because he knows that's a lie. 

As if Papi can feel him smiling against his shirt, the other man gives a little sigh of contentedness and strokes a thumb across Louis' arm, where he still hasn't let go. Louis relaxes against him, no longer wary of pressing his full weigh down, and Papi makes another small, happy noise. It's a little bit absurd, how easy he is to please, but then Louis realizes how easily _that_ fact pleases him and feels like a hypocrite.

"You're thinking too much again," Papi complains sleepily, and Louis snorts softly. 

He's about to make a joke, but then Papillon presses a soft kiss into his hair. Louis' amusement evaporates. He sucks in a breath and goes stiff, suddenly overwhelmed with affection, and then he tucks in closer when Papi tenses, obviously misunderstanding. Louis rubs his thumb against the skin at Papi’s hip, an apology, an assurance, and he's pleased when Papi’s breathing evens out again.

Louis shifts until he can press his face into the crook of Papi's neck, and then he falls back asleep.

✧ ✧ ✧

Route Zero is an almost pleasant place to be, now that Henri’s used to it. The labor doesn’t get any easier but it doesn’t get harder either, and his body has adjusted to the rough treatment. He moves through the day in an amiable daze, allowing his mind to linger in the late hours of the night and not on the conversations that had preceded them--he doesn’t want to think about Castili, or Cormier, or Dega’s looming appeal. He only wants to think about the way Dega’s teeth had felt sinking into his shoulder. He’d been courteous enough to bite through Henri’s shirt, in a place that no one else can see, but Henri can press his fingers to the spot and savor the ache of it. He does so now, as he settles in beside Celier for their midday break.

“You’re in a good mood,” Celier says warily, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead and eyeing Henri like he’s holding out.

“Yeah,” Henri says. 

He doesn’t elaborate--he’s not about to tell Celier about Dega’s warm, soft hands in the dark, and Celier purses his lips in a display of impatience. “Was hoping maybe Dega’s money had come in,” he grunts, then takes a particularly violent bite from his bread.

A cold hand squeezes at Henri’s guts at the reminder. “Not yet.”

“When, Papi? You said his lawyer was sending more weeks ago.”

“Takes time,” Henri grumbles, then stuffs his mouth with bread to stall. 

It was something he and Dega had agreed on two days before the letter had come. Celier had thought that the money had disappeared with Caimán, and Henri had never corrected that assumption. At the time he’d thought it would be safer for Dega to let them all believe he was every bit as broke as the rest of them, but when he’d looped Dega in the other man had been quick to point out the flaw in that plan--they _needed_ the money for the escape, and Celier wouldn’t react well to finding out he’d been deceived. And so they’d crafted a new story--Dega had requested funds from his lawyer, and they would escape as soon as it came in. It gave them the benefit of controlling the timeline as well.

It had been a nice buffer for a while. Celier had backed off, knowing there was little to do but bide their time, and the reprieve couldn’t have come soon enough--all of Henri’s efforts had since been dedicated to keeping Dega from tearing himself apart.

But he chews and sweats and realizes that they have a new problem. Henri watches Celier from the corner of his eye and tries not to imagine what would happen if he found out that not only was there not any money on the way, but it had been at Henri’s fingertips the entire time. He’d be outraged at Henri for the lie, but he would find a way to take it out on Dega.

No, Celier couldn’t find out--

“What’s your boyfriend been up to?” Celier asks, and it sounds like bait but Henri doesn’t mind diverting the conversation.

“Working, mostly. The infirmary keeps them late.”

Celier nods, eyes half-lidded as he stares out into the sweltering afternoon. “And the doctor? Can he be bought?”

“No,” Henri answers honestly. 

Celier grunts and finishes his bread. Henri chews at his slowly, thoughts still tangled. The letter. Where is it? He hasn’t seen it since the day it had come, since he’d found Dega sitting on their walkway with it in his shaking hands. He blinks slowly, trying to remember. Dega must have put it in his pocket, because it hadn’t been left on the walkway. But where had it gone in the weeks that followed?

Had he destroyed it?

Henri doesn’t think so. He thinks Dega kept it, if only to torture himself.

 _Shit_. He rubs a dirty hand across his face and tries to stay calm. If it was still around, it was clear that no one had found it yet, because Dega would have said something, and the odds that someone would get their hands on it before Henri gets back to the barracks is unlikely. 

He’ll find it. He has time. 

Celier stands, stretches, and then punches Henri on the shoulder in a way that’s supposed to be friendly, but the force of it betrays his frustration. Henri finishes his meager lunch and goes back to work.

✧ ✧ ✧

He skips his shower in favor of heading directly to the barracks after they’re marched back from the Route. A handful of men are already there, panting and dead-eyed on the cool concrete, and they watch curiously as he stalks to his corner and then begins rifling through Dega’s few possessions. 

Nothing in the blankets, which doesn’t come as a surprise, and nothing on the shelf above Dega’s spot. He wonders if maybe Dega keeps the damn thing on him at all times, and for a moment he’s nearly stricken with the fear that Celier will seek Dega out and search him for francs only to find the letter instead. He swallows hard and keeps looking--he still has time before Dega is released. 

Henri finds the letter hidden between the shelf and the wall, and he collapses back against the concrete with relief. 

He sits and he stares down at the folded paper in his hands.

He doesn’t have the right to read it but he feels a cruel wave of curiosity, one that grips him tight and wheedles for attention. What could it hurt? Dega had already told him abouts its contents. He hesitates, sweat crawling down his spine, and then he unfolds the letter.

He reads it once, and then again, and then he folds it up only to reopen and read it a third time. He sits and stares at nothing and can’t stop the slippery-cold coil of unease wind up in his belly.

Something’s off. 

Henri feels it like an ache. It’s a bone-deep certainty, an instinct that has his skin crawling, though there’s nothing in the message itself that he could point to as the cause. He reads it again, committing the words to memory, and then he folds the letter, takes out his matches, and touches a flame to the corner of the crinkled paper.

Henri holds it by one corner and watches it smoke and smolder and curl.

“Hey!” the turnkey bellows from the door, but Henri doesn’t spare him a glance. 

He lets go when the flames lick his fingers, hungry for the last scrap, and it floats down to the floor.

Henri stares at it until its devoured itself and he feels a cleansing sort of peace. Whatever the reason for the letter, if it was real or if it was fake, the pages themselves didn’t have the power to hurt them anymore. Henri wipes his hands on his pants and looks up to see their turnkey standing with his arms crossed over his big belly, looking angry but resigned. 

“Do I want to know?” he grumbles, but it’s at least half bravado. They’re not friends, not in the least, but they’ve spent enough time around each other that the turnkey knows Henri’s not trying to burn the place down.

“No.”

“Do I need to take the matches back?”

 _You could try,_ Henri thinks darkly, but he settles for a shake of his head.

The turnkey eyes him unhappily, as if expecting an apology, then throws his hands up in a gesture of exasperation and turns his back on Henri. Henri stares down at the dark smudge on the floor and presses it away with his heel when he stands.

✧ ✧ ✧

Dega takes the news well. 

They sit close together against the pillar of their walkway and Henri watches his face carefully, reading distress in the subtle crease of his brow, but Dega only offers him a pained smile after Henri tells him about Celier’s persistence, about burning the letter. 

“I understand,” he says, but Henri feels no relief. He nods but continues to stare, trying to swallow down the hard pit of apprehension in his throat. 

Dega glances away as if unnerved by his scrutiny. 

_Clara might be alive,_ Henri nearly says, but giving Dega that hope based on a gut feeling would be nothing less than sadistic. _There was something wrong with that letter,_ he tries, but the words sit heavy and stubborn on his tongue, like some lingering bad taste. His next thought is just as baseless as the others, and he doesn’t speak it into existence but he thinks it all the same: _your lawyer is hiding something from you._

Henri touches Dega’s chin gently, angling his face back so that he can look him in the eye, and he’s gratified when the smaller man doesn’t flinch away. He only stares at Henri with a shy sort of curiosity, and he presses back hard against his mouth when Henri leans in to kiss him. Henri’s thoughts immediately bloom out, wanting more, but Dega’s smart enough to pull away before they’re caught. 

He watches as Dega licks his lips and turns as though embarrassed, and he wonders if Dega will let him touch him in the dark that night.

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis is nervous. He’d arrived at the infirmary early that morning with an envelope stuffed up the back of his shirt, and he sits on an empty hospital bed with it between his mercifully steady hands and waits for Guibert. 

The doctor finds him like that and comes up short, likely taken aback by the look of foreboding on his face. 

“Louis? What’s the matter?”

“Good morning, Doctor,” he says in lieu of answering. He turns the envelope in his hands and ignores the way Guibert’s eyes relentlessly track it. “If you could indulge me for a moment, I have a favor to ask you.”

Guibert’s face is creased with concern but he stands patiently before Louis and doesn’t interrupt to ask any questions.

“I’m ashamed,” Louis tells him haltingly, in a way that allows Guibert’s thoughts to race ahead of his words. “It’s been weeks since Clara’s passing and it’s just now that I’ve spared a thought for her family.”

He’d only told Guibert about his wife days ago, but the doctor hadn’t seemed to mind the delay in sharing that piece of information. He immediately understood the connection between the letter he’d delivered to Louis, Louis’ subsequent behavior, and what he was being told.

“I see,” Guibert says gently, but he doesn’t get it, not yet. 

“Her father passed away last year... A small blessing, perhaps. It would have destroyed him to have lost Clara.”

“Yes,” Guibert murmurs, “few men would want to survive a daughter.”

“Clara’s mother died of influenza when she was very young, but she has a sister in Paris. Her father’s illegitimate child. They were only half sisters but,” Louis swallows hard, “that never mattered to Clara. We would always make time for her when she was in Marseille, or when we traveled to Paris.” Louis’ voice catches and Guibert’s eyes flicker soft with sympathy. “I can hardly stand the guilt I feel for not thinking to reach out sooner. I think maybe a part of me was ashamed to send a letter from a prison.”

“She doesn’t know?”

“She does. But it pains me to remind her of the fact that I’m not the person I led her to believe I was.”

Guibert nods at that. Louis knows that Papi’s shared a bit of his backstory already. Louis turns the letter between his fingers again and it moves in a patient dance, dangling at the edges of Guibert’s attention.

“I deserve to be here.” Louis sucks in a sharp breath. “I knew something was off about the bonds, but I didn’t care to ask. I didn’t _want_ to know. The money mattered more than where the bonds were coming from. I’m paying the price for that naïvety. And I know that it’s only fair that I should be in a place like this.”

He glances up to find that Guibert’s attention is on the still-moving envelope but he looks like he wants to argue with Louis, to defend him, and Louis feels a strange fondness for him.

“The news of what I’ve done, and more--being accused of being the one behind it all--it must have come as a terrible shock. Clara was devastated. And my wife’s sister--what could I say to her? I put it out of my mind. But, after Clara’s passing… You must understand, I need to apologize. I wasn’t there to protect her. That was my duty, as her husband.” He stares owlishly down at the floor and holds his breath.

“Your letter,” Guibert says at just the right moment, “a message of consolation for her?”

“Yes. But, more than that as well.”

Guibert’s brow raises in a gentle manner, imploring him to continue without using his authority to demand it. Louis gives the thick envelope a squeeze to demonstrate its bulk.

“Once I began writing, I found it difficult to stop. I’ve written to my lawyer about my appeal, and I had sent short messages to Clara, reassurances, asking her to wait for me, but I’ve never brought myself to say more than what’s necessary. But now, with Clara gone, her sister… somehow, I think she would understand.”

Guibert is kind enough to offer a compassionate smile.

“And this is why I’ve come to you, Dr. Guibert. I know the prison’s policy. And I understand its purpose perfectly well, but I can’t bear the thought of the guards reading this. I’ve written everything. I found it cathartic to put the savagery down in ink.” He stares up at Guibert with anxious eyes, feeling small from where he sits on the hospital bed. “You know how they can be,” he says in a hushed voice, and he doesn’t clarify if he means the guards of the men who had harmed him. He lets Guibert decide which is worse. 

“Yes.” Guibert averts his eyes and chokes down the beginnings of discomfort. 

“The things I’ve written about Clara, about what has happened to me here,” Louis murmurs, “they’re intimate pains. If you choose to help me, I know you’ll only read it if you must. I trust you. And, I don’t doubt that you already have an understanding of some of it. You must have seen… when I was brought in.” His chest aches as he pulls the words, thistle-sharp, from the closed-off places in his mind. “The unspeakable things that happen here in the dark.”

“I understand,” Guibert says, attempting to be gracious but broadcasting his apprehension instead. “You don’t need to say any more.”

Louis lowers his face as though recoiling from a reprimand. He doesn’t look up when Guibert lays a warm hand on his shoulder. 

“I understand,” the doctor says again. “The letter will stay sealed. I can respect your need for privacy, and I will keep your confidence.”

“Thank you,” Louis breathes out in genuine astonishment. 

“I’m glad that you have someone to confide in, Louis.” 

_Someone that isn’t you, you mean,_ Louis thinks, fighting down a trickle of self-disgust. “You’re very kind,” he says hoarsely. 

Guibert’s mouth twists with pity. He extends his hand and Louis slowly places the letter into his palm. It’s difficult to look away from it, with so much was relying on this one moment. Guibert tucks it into the interior pocket of his coat and then gives it a light, playful pat. 

“Thank you,” Louis says again. He conveys the gravity of his gratitude with solemn eyes. “And--if I may ask one more thing.”

Guibert nods but doesn’t speak, as though afraid a verbal agreement would be more binding. 

“If she replies…”

“You’d like me to bring it directly in to you.”

“Yes,” Louis breathes. “She has a soft heart. I don’t doubt that she will try to comfort me--”

“And you don’t want the guards reading that, either.” 

Louis gives him a weak smile. “It’s possible that the address will come from a local source. Her church has connections to a mission in Columbia. She donates often, and knowing her, she will want to take the opportunity to enclose funds to them. They might forward the letter on her behalf. It will be addressed to you.”

Guibert looks impressed by this woman’s charity and he’s quick to agree. He seems prepared to step away to give Louis a minute to compose himself, but he tilts his head abruptly with realization. Louis' heart stutters as the doctor pulls the letter back out of his jacket. “Oh, I didn’t think to ask her name. I'll have to keep an eye out for it, if her reply will be coming from a different address." Guibert studies the face of the envelope before nodding and tucking it safely back into his pocket. "Nennete, is it?"

Louis’ mouth curves in a slow smile, silky sweet. “Yes."

✧ ✧ ✧

“You were right.”

Papi turns and smiles at him, relief etched into every inch of him. He hadn’t wanted to wait on the walkway but Louis had insisted--Guibert wasn’t especially fond of Papi as of late and seeing him might be an unwelcome distraction, and Louis could manage the walk from the infirmary on his own every now and then.

“He agreed?”

Louis collapses down next to him, one leg folded and the other dangling off landing. He feels loose, light in a way that he hasn’t felt in weeks, and he doesn’t even mind the sharp sting of sunlight in his eyes. “He did.”

Papi makes a noise of approval. He shifts away from the pillar in order to be closer, and Louis feels the heat of him radiating into his shoulder. “Good,” Papi breathes, and when Louis turns to look he’s struck by how pale and piercingly blue his eyes are. “No problems?”

“No. As I said, you were right--in his unwillingness to talk about what had happened,” and here Louis feels a twinge of hypocrisy, because he hasn’t yet put the horror into words either, “he was more than happy to accept the letter.”

“Didn’t seem suspicious?”

“No.”

“Good. You did good, Dega,” Papi says, and he’s close enough that Louis can nearly taste him. 

He wants to put his mouth to better use than talking about Guibert, but he’s mindful of the possibility of eyes on them--guards frequently patrol the parallel walkway and they could be seen by inmates below from the right angle. 

“Do you think she’ll do it?” Louis asks after a moment, twisting his fingers together in an unintentional betrayal of his nerves.

“Yes,” Papi says. The certainty in his voice inspires relief and an unexpected curl of jealousy. Papi glances over and must read something in his face, because he brushes their shoulders together. “Don’t worry. She’ll take her cut and pass the rest on.”

“Okay.”

“Dega.”

Louis reluctantly turns and meets his eyes again.

“She will,” Papi says, inclining his head and leaning in, as if he could persuade Louis of the integrity of his ex-lover through sheer determination. “She’s a lot of things, but most of them are good--she’s loyal. She’ll be glad for the francs set aside for her, she’ll send the rest to Julot’s contact.”

Louis sighs and allows himself to dwell on the next concern. “And him? This _Le Ver_.”

Papi shrugs, but he’s still pressed against Louis and the sudden movement nearly knocks him over. “Julot said he’s good people.”

“The nickname hardly inspires confidence,” Louis drawls with distaste. “We’re meant to trust someone named ‘the worm’ with this?” Papi opens his mouth but Louis blinks and then barks out a laugh, which has Papi’s eyes widening in alarm.

“What?”

Louis’ laugh tapers off into an apologetic cough. He shakes his head and tries to wipe the grin off of his mouth. “I just realized I’m talking to a man nicknamed ‘butterfly’. What is it with you thief types and your nicknames, anyway?” 

Papillon rolls his eyes and angles his head away, ignoring the question, but Louis can still see his begruding smile. “It’s a joke, I guess, about burrowing, or something. Julot said Le Ver’s pretty into the catacombs. Spends all his free time there.”

“Ah. One of those,” Louis says with obvious disdain, which earns him playful outrage from Papi.

“We can’t all be millionaire forgers, Dega. Some people have less fruitful hobbies.”

Louis snorts. “Regardless.”

“Julot trusted him. Said he was going to reach out the second he broke free. They’d robbed a few places together, had some money stashed away, and he trusted Le Ver to send him his half.”

“And you trust Julot.” It’s not a question. Louis knows that Papillon does, just as he knows it was that trust that had brought him and Papi together. He hadn’t gotten to know Julot much on the ship but he feels a pang of appreciation for the near-stranger all the same. _I owe him my life, several times over,_ he thinks, but doesn’t say it out loud.

“Yeah.”

“Well,” Louis says, drawing out the word like he’s reluctant to let it go. “I do, too, I suppose.”

“Well,” Papi replies, mimicking his tone, “in that case, you should trust this Le Ver, too.”

That’s a little harder to ask, but Louis doesn’t argue the point. Julot’s information has always been solid--his understanding of Louis’ situation had been accurate enough, and Galgani’s as well from what Papi’s shared, and the letter’s already in Guibert’s hands either way. 

“All we can do now is wait and see,” he says with an effort to sound optimistic.

“Wait and see and pray like hell Julot’s still in South America.”

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis wakes up from a dream about dark water, and he finds Papillon sprawled over him, head resting in the hollow of his neck, arm wrapped possessively around his waist. He finds it isn’t difficult to chase the lingering touch of the nightmare away, not with that warm weight against him.

He breathes in the humid French Guiana night and wonders what it would be like to wake up with Papillon bearing down on him somewhere else, somewhere safe. _Amsterdam_ , he’d said, just for the sake of saying something. He’s never been and he knows he’ll likely never go, though the private confession sends a sharp stab of grief through him. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, near sick with guilt at the deception but too much of a coward to say it while the other man is still awake. 

Papi doesn’t stir at the soft words. Louis’ mind roves to the shelving high up on the wall, as it does most nights, and he’s surprised when the roiling pain he expects at the loss of the letter doesn’t come. Papillon had been right to destroy it--Louis should have done it weeks ago, but sentimentality had kept his hands away from its hiding spot. He stares at the ceiling and feels Papi against him and realizes that the letter is inconsequential. It’s not Clara, it’s not even a piece of her--it wasn’t her hand that pressed the words into the paper, not her skin that brushed over the ink, and he understands that he hasn’t lost anything today. 

No, Clara was not in the letter, but he feels like she’s with him, living in the hollow spaces between his ribs. He decides to pretend that she is a willing accomplice in this, that she listens intently to their whispered hopes in the dark and volunteers her name to the cause. _She would have,_ he thinks with vicious conviction. She had loved him, and no matter what--no matter that he’d left her alone, no matter that she’d found a way to move on. She would want him to find a way forward, too.

There had been fights, of course, bad days in which they’d both lost sight of that love and given in to enmity. There were times that she’d screamed and thrown a book at his head, times that he would shut down and freeze her out and disappear for days without a word. There was the way that she would look at him, face pinched with misery, when he didn’t want to go drink with her friends, there was the way he’d wonder if she cared more about going out to show off her new mink coat than curling up and having a quiet dinner together at home. _Vain_ , he had muttered; _selfish_ , she had yelled. Those words and worse-- _vapid, bitter, boring_ \--traded like blows in a boxing match, and afterward he could hardly stand to look at her. And, worst of all, there had been times when he’d wanted to leave her, to destroy them both in one fell swoop. 

But for every hostile word there were countless precious memories.

Clara had never been more beautiful than the day of their wedding, spun in white silk, red-cheeked and starry-eyed with new love, but he thinks of her in the modest moments, when he’d loved her the most--hungover and cranky, covered in flour from one of many failed attempts to bake éclairs, knowing of his weakness for them. That time she had accidentally spilled wine on his favorite carpet and pretended she’d done it in retaliation for not taking her to the opera, because being clumsy was more embarrassing and she knew he’d see right through it either way. When she’d been unable to stop laughing at the look on his face when she’d sauntered into their bedroom in his best pair of slacks and an unbuttoned dress shirt, and he’d been helpless and flushed pink at the sight.

He thinks of the press of her soft lips and the way that she could never manage to make his coffee the way he liked, and he smiles, aching.

She had loved him, and he loves her still. 

He carries her ghost in his chest and he gently rests his cheek against Papillon’s head, content with the knowledge that they’re going to save him together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is one chapter away from being as long as the first Harry Potter book and that fact makes me want to lie on the floor and not move for a week. _What the fuck, you guys._ It's been less than two months. I hope you know that I blame all of you for your incredible support and encouragement, for having unbelievably kind things to say each time I post, and for making me want to sit down and write at every opportunity despite my doubts.
> 
> This is entirely your fault I hope you're all ashamed.


	12. Douze

“I’ve sent your letter,” Guibert tells Louis the following morning, and Louis nearly drops the clean linens he has bundled in his arms. “It should arrive in Paris by the end of the week.”

He sucks in a breath and stares, wide-eyed, and Guibert laughs at the look on his face.

“You’re quite lucky, we only just received access to airmail a few years ago.”

Louis feels very lucky indeed, and grateful besides that, and he’s so effusive in his gratitude that Guibert begins to look bashful.

“It’s no problem,” the doctor says with grace and no small amount of self-importance, and Louis spends the morning glowing with pride at having tapped into Guibert’s savior complex.

He moves through his daily tasks in a suspiciously good mood. The patients take notice and seem to be glad for it, because Louis is that much more careful, that much more kind, and some smile and whine pitifully as he helps tend to their various ills. 

His pleasant mood evaporates when Cormier lumbers up the stairs and nearly slams right into him. Louis stares up, struck dumb with surprise, and Cormier’s eyes narrow with undisguised hostility. Louis’ throat seizes up and he considers trying to shove the hulking man back down the stairs, but before he can commit to that insanity Guibert appears at his elbow and looks the unfamiliar inmate up and down, searching for an injury.

“How can we help you?” Guibert asks once it becomes obvious that Cormier’s not going to volunteer the information on his own, too preoccupied with staring Louis down like he can strike him dead with just a thought. “What is it that you need?”

Cormier slowly lifts his right arm to show off a puffy ring of red flesh.

“A bite mark?” Guibert reaches out to turn Cormier’s wrist back and forth, examining the discoloration. “Yes, this is definitely infected.”

Louis remains pinned beneath Cormier’s stare. His heart races. If Cormier tells Guibert that Louis bit him--

“Yes,” Cormier says, but he doesn’t elaborate, and it’s clear that he won’t. He turns his dark eyes to Guibert and Louis takes a shuddering breath in and a step back, as though released from a snare.

“We can help with that. Please, sit.”

Louis can’t figure out what to do, and so he stands stock-still and stares as Guibert guides Cormier to sit down on a spare bed and gathers antiseptic and gauze. Guibert throws him concerned glances as he works on Cormier’s wrist, but Louis’ gaze stays locked on the side of Cormier’s head, suddenly afraid to turn his back. 

He tries to get his breathing under control. 

Cormier isn’t here to kill him, though he clearly very much wants to, and standing around like a thunderstruck loon isn’t going to do him any good. He shakily turns and tries to find something to do, but he suddenly can’t stand the curious eyes of the inmates and he’s already cleaned everything that he has been tasked with cleaning. He’s about to volunteer to clean the lavatories, even though it isn’t his turn, but Guibert appears behind him and lays a hand on his shoulder.

Louis turns, stomach prickling with dread. 

“Are you alright?”

Louis swallows and nods, and gives a fair impression of a smile. “Yes, thank you.”

Guibert’s eyes are large and strangely sad, and he turns to look at Cormier with disproportionate distaste. Guibert squeezes his shoulder as though to reassure him. 

Reassure him of what?

“We need more gauze and bandages, we’re running low,” Guibert tells him softly. “Have you been to the storage units?”

“Not inside of them,” Louis says, fighting down the peculiar emotion that arises at the thought of the various things that have gone on behind them.

“Okay.” Guibert’s hand squeezes again. He’s trying to be comforting, but Louis can’t puzzle out why. “There’s a key in the desk,” he says, nodding his chin toward the corner. “Have the guard downstairs escort you.”

“Yes, Doctor,” Louis murmurs.

“He’ll know which one you need,” Guibert says, and when Louis nods he gives him a sympathetic smile before returning to Cormier. 

Louis hurries to the desk and digs through loose papers and empty glass vials, but his mind stays with the doctor and Castili’s thug. He can’t catch the words but Guibert’s tone of voice keeps him on edge, twitchy; he’s only ever seen Guibert lose his patience with Papillon, and that was a different sort of ire. It was annoyance. With Cormier, he seems _angry_. 

Louis closes his hand around the key and doesn’t allow himself to glance over as he hurries down the stairs. The blank-eyed guard that he’s has come to think of as ‘Bordeaux’ sits at the table doesn’t blink as Louis descends the final steps. 

“I need to retrieve materials for the doctor,” he says with more confidence than he feels. 

For a moment he thinks Bordeaux is going to ignore him and return to a less-than-thrilling game of solitaire, but he stands with a muted sigh, his chair scraping obnoxiously across the floor. He beckons Louis with a lazy hand gesture and Louis is quick to follow at his heels as they pass from the interior courtyard to the exterior, and then out into the main area beyond the infirmary gates. 

“I’m sorry,” Louis says after a minute of uncomfortable silence, “for dragging you out into the sun.” He’s reasonably certain that’s why Bordeaux’s got that look on his face, and he’s gratified when the guard sighs and shrugs, adjusting his hat.

“S’alright.”

“All the same, I appreciate the escort,” Louis murmurs when they reach the row of storage buildings.

Bordeaux grunts in acknowledgement and gestures vaguely at the one second from the left. “Go on, then.” 

Louis pushes the heavy key in and turns it until it clicks. The guard doesn’t follow when Louis steps inside and he takes a moment to admire the disarray. It’s impressively cluttered, and as he starts hunting for gauze and bandages he wonders if anyone other than indifferent inmates have been inside in years. Guibert’s not exactly fastidious but he’d definitely disapprove of _this_. 

He skirts around the large desk in the center of the room and focuses his search on the rows of overflowing shelves in the back. He lifts the lid of a wooden box and coughs at the dust that startles up into the air, and he finds nothing but empty metal canisters. He tries the next and finds English medical books.

“For God’s sake,” he mutters, squinting around the room. It’s dim, illuminated only by a thin window on either side, no wider than the full stretch of his fingers. A preventative measure against break-ins, he supposes. He continues his search, sweating in the stillness, and starts to feel anxious as the minutes drag by, worried that Bordeaux will be angry with him for taking so long. 

His lungs are tight from coughing by the time that he finds what he needs beneath a haphazardly folded canvas tarp. He gathers as much as he can carry into his arms and stumbles back out into the mid-afternoon sun. Bordeaux turns to stare and seems disappointed that he’s going to have to leave the thin line of shade that he’s found against the side of the building. Louis offers him a wan smile and readjusts the bulk in his arms.

“That it?”

“Yes, this is all he needed, thank you.”

Bordeaux pushes off of the building and leads Louis back toward the infirmary with all the urgency of a man approaching his own execution. Louis bites the inside of his lip to keep from smiling, knowing how bored Bordeaux gets with hospital duty. 

“Thank you,” he says again, hoping for small talk, and Bordeaux turns his head and walks a step slower until his pace is nearly even with Louis’. 

“That guy hurt bad?” Bordeaux asks, eyeing the mound of gauze in Louis’ arms. “The one that they just brought in.”

Louis shakes his head, mouth dry at the mention of Cormier. He wonders again if Bordeaux is Castili’s inside man and tries not to let that suspicion color the conversation. “No. An infected cut, that’s all. These aren’t for him in particular, we just need to restock a bit.”

Bordeaux nods. 

“You were right about the rain.”

Bordeaux shrugs. “Was right about the humidity, too.”

Louis laughs lightly, and he only has to force it a little. “Yes, that’s true. Godawful, isn’t it?”

“Godawful,” the guard agrees with a nod.

Louis’ smile widens. Bordeaux parroting his word choice, it’s a hopeful sign--it tells Louis that he’s doing a good job of establishing rapport. He’s relied on this indication in the past, when he’d been building up his reputation with Marseille’s elite; he would listen to them bitch and moan about their comfortable lives, would sympathize sweetly, and he would know that they trusted him when they used the same words and phrases. _It must be hard, living with that kind of pressure,_ he’d often say regardless of the circumstance, and would feel a jolt of satisfaction when a man would nod solemnly and regurgitate it like gospel: _Yes, yes, it’s very hard, the pressure is unbearable._ Men who trusted him to know their hearts were quick to parrot back his sympathies. 

He thinks it’s much the same with the guard. He hasn’t figured out how Bordeaux can be useful to him but he knows cultivating a friendly relationship can’t hurt regardless of his allegiances, and Bordeaux seems easily satisfied by banalities. A pedestrian conversation here and there is the least painful thing he’s had to do in months, and he manages to keep up a steady but bland stream of chatter on the walk back to the hospital.

✧ ✧ ✧

Cormier is gone by the time that Louis returns, which is almost as much of a surprise as it is a relief. Guibert thanks him profusely for delivering the materials and Louis is humbled by it, happy to help. He begins restocking the gauze but Guibert lays a gentle hand on his arm and he pauses, puzzled, at the look on the doctor’s face.

“Thank you for all of your help today, Louis.” Guibert blinks and removes his hand as though burned. His smile turns apologetic. Something in Louis’ stomach begins to tighten. “You’re an asset to this infirmary.”

“Thank you,” Louis says, but it comes out like a question.

Guibert nods. “Why don’t you go early today? You’ve completed everything you needed to do already, haven’t you?”

Louis’ apprehension blossoms up into his throat. He swallows and tries to smile. “I have.”

“Then go and take the rest of the afternoon,” Guibert says, and Louis nearly laughs at the implication that there’s something better waiting outside of the hospital gates for him, like he’s going to go enjoy a beer at a pub with the unexpected blessing of free time. 

Papi’s not back from the Route yet--there’s only sun and violence waiting for him out there.

“Thank you, Dr. Guibert, that’s very kind of you. But I’m happy to finish my shift. I’m sure there are other things to be done.”

Guibert’s eyes are soft and Louis doesn’t like the pity he finds there. Guibert commends his work ethic and Louis only barely refrains from laughing in Guibert’s face, only just barely stops himself from asking Guibert to please kindly tell that to the men on the Route.

He moves through the rest of the afternoon in a state of bemusement, wondering if he’s overplayed his hand and come off as some sort of invalid.

He’s sweeping for the second time that day when it hits him, and the force of the realization nearly bows him over. He bites the inside of his cheek until it hurts and forces himself to keep moving, to keep his face neutral, to keep from pulling the doctor aside and correcting the assumption.

He can’t meet Guibert’s eyes for the rest of the day.

✧ ✧ ✧

He finds he can’t meet Bordeaux’s eyes either. He stares down at his boots as he waits for Papillon to collect him at the gate, and Bordeaux’s wallpaper personality lulls him into a false sense of security. He nearly forgets that the guard is there, leaning against one of the pillars that supports the fenced courtyard of the infirmary, and belatedly realizes that Bordeaux must not be visible from the outside when a convict Louis doesn’t recognize leans in through the gate and snarls a crude invitation.

Louis and the inmate both jump when Bordeaux slams his hand against the bars.

“Get back,” Bordeaux barks.

The convict shifts away, slinking like a stray dog back across the courtyard to his friends, and Louis stares at the guard with his heart pounding. 

“Fucking animals.”

Louis’ not sure if Bordeaux is talking to himself or not, but he gives a stiff nod just in case. 

“Thank you,” he says after a moment, mouth dry, unsettled by the show of force. He hasn’t ever heard Bordeaux speak with anything more than a bored drawl, and the flare of his temper is an unpleasant reminder of the man’s power.

Bordeaux regards him nonchalantly, already settled back into apathy. Louis wonders if his face has a different setting, or he’s seen the whole repertoire now--corpse-blank or angry.

“You should watch your back,” Bordeaux says. He looks Louis up and down with a critical eye and even though Louis can’t be more than two inches shorter he feels like a child being warned against playing on the tracks of a train.

He feels a flush of embarrassment crawl up his neck. “Okay.”

Bordeaux continues to stare at him like he’s stupid, like he doesn’t get it, but Louis knows exactly what he’s talking about. 

“Lot of deviants here,” the guard says. “Perverts.”

Louis nearly closes his eyes in mortification.

Bordeaux sniffs. “Not just out there. That turnkey, too.”

“Abda?”

Bordeaux shrugs, and Louis thinks it’s entirely possible that this guard doesn’t even know the infirmary turnkey’s name. He looks expectant though, as if waiting for something, and Louis hunts for something to say other than _please stop talking_.

“Yes, him,” Louis mutters, adjusting his glasses. “My friend said much the same thing.”

“The one with the head injury?” Bordeaux deadpans, and there’s something in his voice--a droning amusement, near mockery--that has Louis’ heart kicking again.

He’s suddenly afraid to speak, as if he’ll betray something about Papillon to this potential threat, but the guard just shrugs and turns to look out over over the courtyard again when he doesn’t reply. 

“Thinks he’s slick,” Bordeaux assess after a minute, though there’s no hostility in his voice. “But that doctor’s just an idiot.”

A startled laugh bubbles out of Louis’ throat before he can stop it, and he rubs anxiously at his mouth as though to crowd it back in. Bordeaux looks a little pleased at having gotten it out of him. 

“He does his best, I think,” Louis concedes once he recovers, and he pointedly doesn’t clarify which man he means.

Bordeaux grunts, and then he shifts his hand to the set of keys on his belt. “Speak of the devil and he will appear.”

Louis turns to watch Papillon approach, looking tired but at ease in the evening sun, and something pulls in Louis’ chest at the sight of him, as it usually does these days. 

“Thank you,” Louis says quietly, for what must be the third time that day, and he turns to watch the guard’s eyebrows raise in curiosity. “For your concern.”

Bordeaux stares steadily at him. He looks like he’s trying to decide if he should bother setting Louis straight. “We’re people, too,” he says gruffly. “Just because we work here, doesn’t mean--”

“I know,” Louis says quickly. “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. I apologize.”

Bordeaux shrugs, back to animal blankness, and he unlocks the gate. He pulls it open and turns to regard Papillon with curiosity, who stares back with a forced sort of nonchalance from a respectful distance.

“Have a good night,” Louis murmurs as he slips out to Papi’s side. He tucks in close as the metal gate clangs shut behind him.

✧ ✧ ✧

“You okay?”

Dega’s smile is stilted but Henri’s glad to see it all the same. “Long day.”

“Yeah?”

He watches as Dega’s shoulders droop, like he’s been carrying a weight around and has finally been given permission to drop it. Henri walks a half-step closer so that their arms brush, and Dega’s smile softens into something sincere at the contact.

Dega takes a deep breath in and sighs it out. “Cormier came to the infirmary today.” Dega’s quick to continue, like he knows how fast Henri’s temper rises at the thought. “His, well, where I bit him… The injury is infected.”

Henri coughs in a poor attempt to hide a laugh. “Shit.”

Dega shoots him a dark look but Henri feels no remorse for being glad that Cormier’s suffering. They climb the steps to their walkway and Henri realizes that there’s more, call tell from the nervous silence. “What?” he asks with a sudden plunge of dread.

“Guibert thinks…” Dega takes a shuddering breath and Henri’s head pounds with a flood of adrenaline. 

“What?” he demands.

“Guibert was acting strangely, after he saw how I reacted to seeing Cormier. He sent me on a task outside of the hospital and he’d already had Cormier removed by the time I returned.”

“Okay,” Henri says slowly, and he reaches out to grab Dega by the arm, to stop him so that he can look him in the face.

Dega raises his eyes slowly and Henri can’t clearly parse the strange, delicate pain there.

“I think he thinks it was Cormier.” Henri still doesn’t get it, but Dega averts his eyes and clarifies before he has to ask. “Not Caimán.” Dega stumbles over the name and Henri’s chest tightens. “He thinks Cormier was the--”

“Dega,” he mutters, trying to interrupt so that Dega doesn’t have to say it, but he comes up with nothing else to say besides, “shit.”

Dega retreats out of Henri’s grasp and folds his arms over his stomach. 

“It doesn’t change anything,” Henri says softly, kind enough to avoid phrasing it like a question.

“No. I don’t think so.”

Henri knows that he should back off, give Dega a moment to gather himself, but he doesn’t retreat a single step. Dega’s shy eyes flick up before long, and Henri feels a curl of warmth at the way Dega seems to settle, as though Henri’s heavy gaze grounds him.

“Guibert sent the letter.”

Henri nearly slumps with relief, which draws a wry smile out of Dega. “Shit,” Henri laughs, “that’s good. That’s good news.”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“Guibert speculated it should be delivered within a few days. It’s being sent by airmail, not by ship.”

Henri lets out an obnoxious sigh of relief. “Good,” he says again. “Now we just have to wait.” 

“Well,” Dega drags out in his low rasp of a voice, “in the meantime, how about that lesson on how to throw a punch?”

Henri knows that Dega’s back to thinking about Cormier. He doesn’t bother telling him that it’ll take more than a decent punch to deal with a man like that. “We don’t have that long until dinner.”

“Better get started, then.”

“Guess so,” Henri huffs, smiling at the way Dega lights up from his easy agreement, and moves in close to grip Dega’s wrists and pull his arms away from his belly. He feels a pang of affection when Dega lets him push and adjust him until he’s in an acceptable defensive position, looking at him with absolute trust, and it’s impossible not to think of the last time--the first time. He breathes out through his nose and tries not to lose himself to distraction.

“Keep your feet apart. Your stance should be about as wide as your shoulders.” Dega’s green-grey eyes track him, the black of his pupils widening. “Keep your right foot back, angled away, just like this.”

“Okay,” Dega breathes out. He flushes faintly as Henri’s hands ghost over his hips to help him get it right.

“Makes your body a smaller target,” Henri says absently, ignoring the eager thud of blood in his pulse. “Gives you more momentum when you swing.”

“Okay.”

“When you do swing, you follow through, like you’re punching straight through his face to the back of his head.” Henri gently takes Dega’s right hand between his own and helps him form it into a proper fist. “Don’t tuck your thumb in between your fingers.”

“Right.” Dega’s breath smells faintly of citrus and Henri has to strangle down the desire to see if he tastes likes oranges, too. He spares a vague thought of gratitude toward Guibert for providing his staff with more than old bread.

“Pivot slightly on your left foot. Don’t lose your balance.”

Dega hums in his throat, eyes dark and warm, and Henri abruptly wishes that he was stupid enough to drag Dega down to the ground and disregard possible onlookers in favor of easing the building pressure under his skin.

“Okay, try it,” he commands, giving Dega the space to swing properly, and he grunts out in satisfaction at the first attempt. “Not bad. You’re too stiff, but some practice will take care of that.”

Dega doesn’t complain when Henri demands that he try again, again, and again. 

“You’ll get it. And if you don’t, you can always go for the eyes.” He demonstrates with a jabbing motion and Dega’s eyebrows lift with amusement.

“That’s your back-up technique? Poke him in the eye?” Dega chortles and shakes his head, staggering back to lean against the pillar and wipe sweat from his forehead. Henri wants to crowd in close and relax with him, enjoy the comfortable levity that they’ve found, but his empty stomach twinges at the reminder that the evening is quickly failing. 

“Come on, I’m starving,” he declares.

Dega grumbles good-naturedly, pushing off of the pillar again with reluctance, and he doesn’t blink when Henri takes a moment to stroke a stray curl from his forehead. Dega regards him with a devastating sort of affection and Henri’s thoughts race ahead to what he might have to look forward to in the dark. That happy hope shrivels when he catches a glimpse of movement below and looks to find Cormier staring up at them with surprise. 

Henri’s blood thumps heavy in his throat at the sight. His mouth goes sour with a first flush of adrenaline. 

Cormier’s eyes rove slowly, examining the walkway as though trying to figure out how to access it, and Dega freezes like an unlucky doe when he turns to see what caught Henri’s attention. Henri becomes uncomfortably aware of just how alone they are. 

“Come on,” he prompts, wrapping a firm hand around Dega’s bicep and pulling him out of his stupor. “Fuck him. Let’s go eat.”

Dega swings his head around to gape at him, but Henri’s already tugging him toward the stairs, wanting to get down and around the corner before Cormier can make up his mind on if he’s willing to defy Castili and beat them both to death.

“Papi,” Dega hisses, but Henri doesn’t let go, not even after they weave into the tired-eyed crowd in the courtyard.

✧ ✧ ✧

Celier finds them pressed close together at dinner, and he swings himself down onto the bench across from them with scorn plastered into both corners of his smile. 

“Papi,” he greets warmly, and then shoots Dega a withering glance. “Birdie.”

Dega’s jaw clenches.

Henri sighs out through his nose and offers Celier a clipped nod, which Celier ignores. Henri supposes that he should be grateful to have put off this moment for as long as they have--Celier’s kept his distance from Dega, but it was inevitable that he’d eventually seek them out as the days stretched on. Henri holds out hope that time has mellowed out the edges of Celier’s antipathy.

“You two look cozy,” Celier says, mocking in his amusement, and Henri exhales noisily with disappointment.

“What do you want?” Dega asks, dripping disdain from every syllable. 

Henri and Celier both look at him with surprise. Celier scoffs as soon as he recovers and Henri presses his tongue against the back of his teeth to keep from trying to mediate. He has a gut feeling that Dega wouldn’t appreciate it--he’s been on the edge of anger ever since Cormier had found them on the walkway and Henri doesn’t want to push him over the ledge.

“Watch yourself, Dega,” Celier warns.

Dega’s mouth twitches at the corner. 

“Something wrong?” Henri asks, deciding that maybe he should intervene after all. 

Celier ignores him in favor of continuing his staring match with Dega. Henri feels Dega go taut beside him and he’s quick to lay a pacifying hand on his thigh beneath the table. “Celier,” Henri says again, this time with force, and Celier’s eyes slowly slide over. 

“Just checking in.”

Henri squeezes his hand on Dega’s leg, aiming for reassuring, but Dega hasn’t relaxed, hasn’t even blinked.

“We’ve nothing to report to you,” Dega says with open contempt. “Get out.”

Celier’s face goes slack with shock. Henri tenses in preparation to get between them, but Celier only throws his head back and shouts out a laugh. “Shit, Birdie. Finally found your backbone, hm? Caimán find it somewhere in you, huh?”

Henri goes cold at the reference to Dega’s assault, but Dega smiles slowly, and Henri abruptly recognizes the same arrogant wickedness in it as when Dega had antagonized Cormier. He only has time to think, _ah, shit_ , before Dega opens his mouth.

“Do you practice at being such a pediculous cunt, or does it come naturally to you?”

Celier’s up in a wild lurch, thick hands fisted in anticipation for violence, and Henri leaps to his feet with the intention of putting Celier on the ground if he needs to. Dega only sits and curves his mouth unpleasantly. 

“The _fuck_ did you just say, Dega?”

“Hey,” Henri barks, and he meets Celier’s angry gaze with an unmistakable warning of his own. “That’s enough.” 

“You’d better control your bitch, Papi,” Celier sneers, but the slur slides harmlessly off of Dega, who has heard it too many times to be cowed by it now. 

“Shut up and go,” Henri says quietly. He’s watching closely enough that he sees the moment that Celier realizes that Dega’s not afraid of him anymore. 

Celier’s scowl turns murderous. Henri knows he’s calculating the options in his mind--laughing it all off, walking away, breaking Dega’s jaw--and he seems to come to a dissatisfying decision when his sly eyes slide over to Henri to factor him into the equation. 

“Your money better come in soon,” he grunts, addressing Dega but looking steadily at Henri. “And it had better be enough.”

Henri jerks his head in an ambiguous motion-- _I understand_ , or _get out_ , or some combination of the two. Celier’s frown is sharp as a knife and he cuts it toward Dega. He jerks his head in a dismissive shake as he walks away, shoulders stiff with anger, and Henri lets out a breath as soon as his back is turned. 

He looks down to Dega and expects to find him wilting with relief at the near-miss, but Dega seems _disappointed._ He doesn’t look up, not even when Henri places a hand on his shoulder. 

Dega ignores the obvious concern in the touch and he finishes his dinner without another word.

✧ ✧ ✧

Papi insists on avoiding the walkway and that stirs a fury in Louis, a loathing at losing that last sacred place. He understands the wisdom of it, he knows it isn’t safe now that Cormier’s clocked it as their hideaway, but it’s one more thing to feel helpless over and that’s hard to swallow.

It doesn’t help his mood that Papi’s radiating his own frustration, has been ever since Celier interrupted them and Louis lost his temper, but he can’t bring himself to regret that slip of control. It had felt _good_. He shifts on the hard concrete of the barrack and bites down a complaint about having to hole up so early, knowing that there aren’t many other places to loiter until lock-up now. He rubs his knuckles under his chin and studies the handful of others that have retired to the barracks early; they’re all old men, weather-beaten and shriveled, and he doesn’t doubt that Papi’s pleased that there isn’t a single one that could present a plausible threat.

He sighs and Papi lights a cigarette, ignoring him.

Louis sighs again a minute later just to be a pest, restless and bored, and watches Papi’s jaw clench with annoyance. Deciding not to push his luck, Louis picks up and flips through his gutted notebook, tracing his fingers over where the paper hadn’t torn out evenly. A sacrifice for the cause. He closes his eyes and pictures the pages on their way to Paris.

He hears a soft hiss as Papi exhales smoke from his lungs. 

“You and Celier,” he starts, but when Louis blinks open his eyes and turns to him expectantly, Papi shakes his head and takes another drag, his brow furrowed. “What, you trying to pick fights to practice what I showed you?”

Louis’ smile is dry with self-deprecation. “Oh, I’m already well acquainted with being hit.”

Papi doesn’t find that funny. He looks at Louis like maybe he wants to hit him too, like it could knock some sense into him, and Louis nearly dares him to do so. But then he catches the thought and bites his tongue, cold with self-disgust. He lowers his eyes to study the uninteresting pattern of dirt on his knee.

“Pediculous?” Papi sighs after a long moment.

Louis shrugs. “It means--”

“I know what it means.”

“At least it wasn’t ‘fuck you’,” Louis protests, but Papi looks at him like he’s an absolute lunatic.

“Dega. That would have been better.”

Louis frowns like he doesn’t already know that. “In any case, he deserved it, and more.”

“Yeah,” Papi agrees easily, and for a moment Louis’ surprised. He hadn’t expected Papi to defend Celier, but--“But we need him.”

Louis grimaces and goes back to staring at the smudge on his pants. He absently rubs at it with a finger, and it’s childish but there’s an undeniable satisfaction in ignoring Papi’s pointed stare.

“You need to keep your shit together.” Papi says it gently, as if that could ease the humiliation of it needing to be said. “Seriously, Dega--”

“It’s fine.” _I’m fine,_ he doesn’t dare say.

Papillon sucks at his cigarette, clearly trying to swallow down his anger along with the smoke, and Louis finds that he wants to curl up in the corner and go to sleep despite the fact that it isn’t even dark yet. He suddenly feels shaky, like he’s coming down from a fever, and he has to resist the urge to scratch the back of his neck until it hurts. 

_He might not be wrong,_ he concedes with uneasy realization. He nearly says as much out loud but the words swell beyond recognition on his tongue. 

“Jesus,” Papi murmurs, and Louis can only begin to guess at his thoughts. He understands that Papi’s reaching the limits of his patience with Louis’ volatile moods, and he doesn’t blame him for being angry.

 _Sorry,_ he thinks, but that word gets stuck, too. _You don’t deserve this._ The truth of the thought grieves him and he swallows thickly, resigning himself to silence.

“Dega.”

Louis stares at Papi’s hands from the corner of his eye, tracks them as they flex loosely in frustration. He turns away. 

“Hey.” One of those hands lands tentatively on his shoulder. “Don’t shut me out.”

Louis wants nothing more than to do exactly that, but he owes Papillon more. He reluctantly turns and looks him in the eye, though it costs him dearly, and he can’t stop the lie that slips out. “I’m not.”

Papi’s face tightens but he doesn’t argue. Instead, his hand raises so that he can take Louis’ chin between his labor-rough fingers and keep his face in place. 

“This isn’t you,” Papi says with unsettling certainty, and that would piss Louis off if Papi’s eyes were any less sad, any less perfectly blue. “Losing control like that. This isn’t who you are.”

 _I know,_ he wants to whisper. 

“You don’t know me well enough to say that,” he lies instead, and he takes the blow of witnessing disappointment darken Papi’s eyes the same way he would’ve taken Celier’s fist. 

“Fine,” Papillon grinds out. “Be a stubborn prick.”

_I’m sorry._

“But don’t do that shit. Trying to start fights.” Papi’s fingers tighten and Louis wonders if he’s going to have marks in the morning. “Take it out on me if you need to.”

Louis’ stomach swoops with horror. “Papi--”

“You’re fucked up, Dega, and that’s not your fault. After everything, all this shit, I get it. But don’t give them a reason to make it worse.” He lets go of Louis’ face and Louis surprises them both by catching his hand and clasping it tight. Papi’s eyes flick between their joined fingers and Louis’ face. 

“I’m sorry,” Louis says at last, but it sounds slippery, desperate, and it does nothing to ease the tired ache in Papi’s frown. “You’re right.” 

Papi looks like he thinks that Louis is only telling him what he wants to hear. 

“I’m trying,” Louis rasps out like it hurts. “I’ll try harder.”

Papi’s angry resignation turns a shade toward alarm. “Dega,” he starts, but then seems at a loss as to what to say, unsure of how to counter that particular tactic. “Just--”

“Papi--”

“Let me help you.”

Louis stares. _You can’t,_ he thinks. “Okay,” he says. He squeezes Papi’s hand as if that’s enough to reassure him, and when the concern doesn’t clear from the other man’s eyes he considers kissing him instead, but the sudden fear of being pushed away rears up, fierce and ugly, and he doesn’t.

He drops Papillon’s hand and leans into the wall to put distance between them.

✧ ✧ ✧

Every time he thinks he has Dega cornered he slips away, and it’s like trying to trap smoke in his hands. He’s losing patience and that scares him. He feels like he’s one lie away from shaking Dega until something honest comes out of his mouth, and he knows the last thing Dega needs is violence, even a loving violence.

He lies beside him as dusk devours the day and watches in frustration as unknowable thoughts flit and flicker behind Dega’s eyes. He stares into Dega’s face, mercurial and strange and beautiful in the half-light, and he wonders what it would take to make him understand.

Dega’s too preoccupied with pretending.

He knows now, had realized it the moment Dega had met Celier’s dangerous gaze without fear, that Dega doesn’t think he’s going to live long enough to find out if Henri intends to make good on his word. A promise that Henri holds dear--just the two of them, free and happy, building a quiet home together. But just like that, the daydream in Henri’s mind shimmers into something elusive and blurred at the edges. The threat of losing it makes his breath hitch.

Dega glances over and must catch something of that in his eyes because he turns his face away again and slithers, clever and quick, into distraction.

“I was thinking. About Nennete--”

“It’ll be fine.”

Dega hesitates, clearly displeased that Henri isn’t making the diversion easy. “You’re terribly certain of that, aren’t you?” he asks, and Henri frowns at the queer inflection in his voice; it sounds like he’s fishing for something that he doesn’t want to find. “How do you think she’ll feel, if she actually gets that letter? You’ve been away for a while, Papillon.”

Henri suddenly feels wrong-footed, and that needles at him. “And?”

“It isn’t right, isn’t it?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Asking her to help us after leaving her behind.”

“Not like that was my choice. And even if she’s not thrilled to hear from me she’ll be grateful enough for the money to help us.”

“And if she’s not?”

“Dega,” he breathes out, hanging on to the last tentative thread of his gentleness. “It doesn’t matter either way. It’s too late. It’s out of our hands now.”

Dega doesn’t reply but his disapproval hangs stagnant between them.

“It’ll be okay,” Henri says again, relieved when the reassurance comes out softer this time.

“Do you love her?”

Henri’s eyes snap to Dega’s face. The other man’s expression is unreadable.

“You said you wouldn’t uproot your life for her.” Although Dega doesn’t put any particular inflection on the statement Henri feels a burn of shame. “But do you love her?”

“I don’t know.”

Dega’s sharp gaze searches him for deception but he finds only painful, begrudging honesty. He swallows hard and doesn’t seem to know what to do with it.

Henri stares at him and tries to remember what’s at stake, what he has to lose by losing his temper. “I care for her. I’m sure I always will, but…” _But what?_ “What we had was good. It was fun, it mattered to me,” he says gruffly, uncomfortable at examining the thoughts he’d never touched back in Paris. “But I was happy with what we had. I didn’t want more.”

“She loved you,” Dega murmurs with a quiet misery, like he’s feeling betrayed on behalf of a woman he’s never met.

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know.”

For a moment Henri’s angry, because it feels like a slap in the face to have that thrown back at him, but then he catches the look in Dega’s eyes and realizes that he’s being honest too.

“I don’t know,” Dega says again, turning his face away. “I’m sorry.”

Henri watches him and tries to choke down his frustration. _Why can’t this be easy?_ he asks himself, and tries not to wonder what the _this_ actually is. He pulls in enough air to fill his lungs and then he rolls onto his back and closes his eyes to signify that he’s given up. He hears Dega’s throat work, hears his breath come in quick, and he wonders if Dega’s going to cry. His stomach turns.

 _Fuck._ “Dega--”

“She’ll be happy,” Dega interrupts, so softly that Henri nearly talks right over him.

Henri opens his eyes but doesn’t turn his head, afraid to see the look on Dega’s face.

“To hear from you.”

“Maybe.”

“She will be.” There’s a strange certainty in Dega’s voice now, and a familiar, terrible distance that gets Henri’s hackles up.

“As long as she delivers what she needs to, I don’t care.”

He sees Dega’s head jerk to the side from the corner of his eye and takes a strange satisfaction in the stunned silence that follows.

“She’ll be fine. She’ll be happy to hear from me, she’ll be happy for the money and happy to help. But there’s nothing beyond that.”

Dega’s looking at him like he doesn’t know what the fuck Henri’s talking about. Henri abruptly realizes that he _doesn’t_ , and it comes as a bit of a surprise that someone as smart as Dega could possibly be so oblivious. _You’re an idiot_ , he wants to say, suddenly begrudgingly fond, but knows that Dega would misunderstand.

“She would like you,” he says instead, and Dega looks ever more perplexed. Henri finally relents and angles his head so that he can meet Dega’s wide eyes straight-on. “For as much of a stubborn shit as you can be.”

Dega seems struck speechless.

“We’re lucky we won’t be able to stay in Paris,” Henri continues with mock relief, “she’d probably coerce us into a _ménage à trois_.”

Dega chokes, sputters, and then laughs.

“She’s a persistent woman, Dega.”

“Papi,” Dega starts, but then laughs again, shaking his head before dropping it back against the concrete. “You’re an idiot.”

“So are you.”

Dega hums noncommittally. He seems to recognize Henri’s tactic for what it is, but to Henri’s relief he doesn’t resent him for it. He seems happy to share in the joke.

“So, she’s fond of sharing, hm?”

Henri can barely contain his grin. “She’s generous, to say the least. I’ve found that most women are, for the right men.”

“Clara not so much, I think,” Dega says, and Henri nearly flinches at the mention of her, but Dega’s smiling as he says it. There’s a painful tug in Henri’s ribcage and it feels suspiciously like hope. It quickly falters when he realizes that Dega’s gotten what he wanted--a diversion. 

Henri struggles to decide if he can stomach a confrontation or if he’s too weak to root out the reservations in Dega’s heart.

As usual, he settles for another joke.

“No? And here I thought she’d like me.”

“Oh. She would have been very fond of you.”

The soft sincerity in his voice has Henri glancing over again. His eyes trace the resignation in Dega’s smile, the muted sadness, and then he makes up his mind and leans in to taste it. Dega makes a noise of surprise, one that borders on annoyance as Henri leans up and over him without breaking the rough kiss, but Dega doesn’t push him away. Henri moves slowly, languidly, pressing in hard until Dega’s most _definitely_ disgruntled.

“Papi,” he grumbles, “get off.”

Henri doesn’t. He does maneuver so that Dega can breathe a little easier, but he stretches over him and holds him down until Dega goes still and looks up at him with a terse sort of surrender. Henri stares at him and slowly tangles the fingers of one hand in his hair, tightening his grip until Dega swallows. He’s grounded now, staring up at Henri like there’s nothing else in the world.

Good.

“Papi.” _What are you doing?_ Dega asks without asking.

Henri’s hand tightens again until Dega starts to look properly pissed off.

“You made me a promise,” Henri tells him.

Dega’s big eyes blink slowly, eyelashes sweeping as he tries to parse out the atmospheric shift between them.

“I’m going to hold you to it.”

Dega’s mouth parts but he doesn’t say anything. Henri stares down, bringing his free hand up to stroke idly at Dega’s face. Dega’s eyes grow wet.

“I know you’re not in the habit of keeping your word,” Henri says, and he doesn’t feel even a little bit bad about the way the remark lands and stings. “But you’re not going to get out of this that easily.”

Dega’s throat works. “Papi,” he says, but he only hisses out a long exhale after that, looking lost.

“We’re in this together. Until the end.”

“Don’t,” Dega warns. He looks stricken and sick. He tries to shake his head in denial, but Henri’s hold is absolute. He strokes a thumb over Dega’s cheek, hating that he’s gone ashy with distress but knowing just how necessary it is to be cruel.

“You’re not going to give up, Dega. I won’t let you.”

Dega makes a soft sound, as if dealt a mortal wound, and he starts to breathe hard. For Henri it’s like trembling on the edge of a thunderstorm.

“You’re going to get your garden,” he murmurs, throat aching.

“You know,” Dega grits out with effort, accusing, on the cusp of gasping, “you know that isn’t true.”

Henri weaves both of his hands into Dega’s hair and twists his fingers until his knuckles go white, and Dega arches in surprise at the pain. His hands fly up to grip at Henri’s shirt but there’s no fear in his glossy eyes, only desperation.

“Let me prove it to you,” Henri says, the gentleness in his voice juxtaposed to the violence of his grip.

Dega gazes at him as though mesmerized and he catches Henri off guard when he surges up to crush their mouths together. It must hurt, Henri thinks hazily as Dega bites at him, to move like that with the punishing hold of Henri’s hands. Dega moves boldly against him and his blood stirs, but that's not what this is about, not even when Dega twists his shirt to hold him in place and tangles them together in earnest. 

When he finally pulls back for air he’s left heaving, staring down at Dega’s angry eyes and swollen mouth with something akin to awe.

“Don’t make promises that you can’t keep,” Dega seethes, wet teeth snapping. He’s treacherous in his pain but Henri settles in close.

“Never,” he vows. “Never.”

Dega makes a noise caught between derision and yearning. Henri breathes slowly and keeps him pinned against the concrete as though the press of his body has the power to convince Dega of his devotion. 

Dega shudders, stumbling quickly toward uncertainty, and Henri kisses him again before he falls all the way down.


	13. Treize

Henri wakes to the distant rumble of thunder. He lies on his back and waits as the morning creeps in from over the sea, and his fingers twitch with the phantom memory of soft hair and violence. For a while he tries to avoid recounting the argument, but he’s locked down in the dark and there’s nowhere to turn for distraction and it doesn’t take long for him to surrender to his unpleasant thoughts. Regret and relief war within him in equal measure--he knows that he should have kept his temper but he’s glad that his frustration had drawn some honesty out of Dega. It’s just that he’s nearly at a loss as to what to do with it.

 _Let me help you,_ Henri had said. For the first time he wonders if he can.

He rolls onto his side to find that Dega’s sleeping with his arm under his head, and Henri smiles because he knows it’ll be numb when Dega wakes and he’ll grumble about it, just as he always does. Henri likes Dega in the morning--cranky, blurry eyed with sleep, quick to complain but just as quick to laugh, as though he needs time to build up the walls of his polite detachment. 

Dega looks gentle and at ease now, and Henri studies his sleeping face like he means to commit it to memory. His stomach aches with the understanding that there’s more to Dega’s reluctance than the belief that they won’t make out alive, because Dega has no faith--not in himself, in Henri, in anyone or anything. Henri can hardly comprehend it, and when he tries to he’s nearly overcome with a sick swell of loneliness. He resists the desire to reach out and wake Dega up, to press in close and find comfort. Instead, he stares for a long time, watching as the strengthening morning chases darkness away into a tamer gloom. He listens as Dega’s breathing changes, as he shifts and tries to get comfortable like he’s forgotten he’s on a concrete slab. Henri smiles again as Dega makes a small noise of displeasure in the back of his throat and wiggles until his arm is out from under his head. 

He enjoys witnessing the moment that Dega’s too-big eyelids twitch and flutter, and he’s not surprised when Dega’s hand reaches for him; he’s still half asleep but something in his brain is awake enough to seek Henri out, to make sure he’s still there. It’s not the first time but it never fails to make Henri feel fiercely possessive. 

Dega’s fingers gently touch his arm and then draw away. His useless eyes open and probably don’t see much of anything.

“Good morning.” Henri’s still smiling and he thinks Dega can probably hear it in his voice. 

Dega rubs at an eye with the back of his hand. “Good morning,” he croaks back, and then licks his lips and clears his throat. He gropes for his glasses and there’s a precarious apology in his eyes once he gets them on.

“Sorry,” Henri says before Dega can beat him to it. “For calling you fucked up. For pulling your hair.”

Dega frowns at that, blinking slow. He clears his throat again but his voice is still rough with sleep. “Don’t mind my hair being pulled,” he jokes in a way that’s a touch shy of suggestive, “most of the time.” Henri opens his mouth to joke right back, but Dega continues quickly. “It’s alright. You weren't entirely wrong.” 

And then he stifles a yawn and rubs at his mouth, likely hoping that that’s going to be the end of it. 

“You don’t believe me,” Henri says quietly. Dega’s eyes go wide with surprise, ready to protest without even knowing exactly what Henri’s talking about, but Henri silences him with a hard look. He’s been thinking about it all morning and he’s come to his conclusions. He wants them heard. “You really don’t think I’m going to keep my word.”

Dega’s heavy eyelids sink low and his mouth parts, and Henri feels a strange satisfaction when Dega makes an obvious effort to think through his answer instead of relying on the lie that surely came to mind first. “Papi,” he begins, then stops to shift like he’s trying to get comfortable again, but Henri knows that he’s probably just stalling.

He props himself up on an elbow and stares down at Dega. He knows that Dega’s instinct is to squirm away from difficult things, to distract and ply with platitudes, and the best way to combat that is to wait him out and ignore the attempts at diversion. 

“I know you’re sincere,” Dega starts again, and Henri can tell he’s being honest now because he looks so goddamn uncomfortable. “I know that you mean what you say now, but--”

“But I'll change my mind.” Henri’s stomach twists. It’s about what he expected. He’s been dwelling on Dega’s insecurities for hours now, but having the confirmation of it, hearing the defeat in Dega’s quiet voice, it hurts more than he anticipated. “You think I won’t want you later.”

Dega offers him a sympathetic shrug, as though discussing the inevitability of the tide. “It’s alright, Papi.”

"Why can’t you believe that?”

Dega frowns like he thinks he's being teased.

"You think I care that little about you?"

"Papi--It's not that. I know that you care."

"What is it that you want, Dega?" he asks too harshly. He's rehearsed this in his head but it's not going to script. "This isn't all on me. What the fuck do you want?"

Dega has the nerve to look injured. He searches Henri's eyes like he doesn't understand what he's done to upset him and Henri tries to keep the accusation out of his voice. 

"After all of this--do you want it to be us?"

There’s a long hesitation in which Dega’s eyes go distant with distress. “Yes." He whispers it out like he’s using his last breath to say it.

“But you don’t think it’s going to happen.”

“No.”

The admission wounds them both but it’s better than a lie. Dega stares steadily, as though he expects Henri to be angry, and Henri’s more than happy to prove him wrong. He’s not angry--he’s sick with disappointment.

“Why?”

Dega pretends to think it over. “The odds of both of us getting out alive--they’re slim. And even we survived, if it was _us_ , how long would it be before…”

Henri’s afraid of what Dega’s going to say but not willing to hide from it. When Dega falters, he takes an unhappy guess. “How long before I find a pretty girl?”

Dega lowers his gaze and doesn’t deny it.

“You think I’m a floozy,” Henri accuses, and the mock outrage in his voice has the desired effect. Dega makes a noise and rolls his eyes. “You think I’m a man of disreputable character.”

“Papi,” Dega groans. He opens his mouth, closes it, grasping at words that don’t come, and Henri takes pity on him.

“I’m not. You think because I didn't want to commit to Nennete, to marry her and move away, you think I wouldn't want that with anyone?"

“Papi--”

“It was different with her.”

“Yes, I would imagine,” Dega jokes dryly, but Henri ignores him.

"I already told you. What we had was fun. But I never promised her more."

"And why would you promise me that? I'm not asking for more."

"Because you don't want it or because you don't think I do?"

"Papi," Dega grits out. Henri watches his throat move like he’s swallowing down an argument. 

"I don't know. I don't know why you and not her. It's not like I stop to think about it."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?"

"Maybe it's being in this place. Maybe it's the fact that I've never met someone so goddamn stubborn. Someone so stupid." Dega gives an impatient huff but Henri silences him with a sharp look. "I don't know why I want this, and I don't care. I don't need a list of reasons why I want it to be you and me."

There’s a hesitation in which Dega rubs roughly at his mouth, like he’s trying to keep the words inside. They spill out all the same. "Maybe that's not good enough.”

"Would you believe me if I said I'd have wanted you, even if we'd met in Paris, or Marseille?"

Dega bites down a laugh. "Papi, do you have a fever again?" He lifts his hand as though to check his forehead. Henri swats his arm away and flushes with anger.

"That's not funny.”

"Would you have?" Dega challenges. He's bold in his assumption that Henri's full of shit. "I heard Julot talk about Nennete, how beautiful she was when she visited you--"

"You think that's all that matters to me?"

Dega looks like he feels a little bit bad for the implication, but for better or worse he doesn't hold back his honest thought. "It matters enough."

"You're an idiot," Henri accuses. "Or an asshole. Both." It annoys him that Dega gives a wry smile and doesn't argue. "And yes. I would have."

Dega's teeth click shut and he face grows warm, like maybe he regrets asking now, like he knows where the conversation is going and he's not prepared for a kind word to be said about him. Henri thinks of the first time Julot had whispered _Louis Dega_ and Henri had laid eyes on him, sitting on that exam table. He remembers the way he had turned his head to keep staring until Dega was out of sight. He thinks about the fact that he’s done everything in his power to keep his eyes on Dega ever since.

"Julot compared you to her, you know. He said I have a type. Big eyes, pretty face--"

"Papi," Dega interrupts, red-cheeked with discomfort. 

“Dark hair. Pale eyes. Hell, you’re probably around the same height.”

"Stop."

"You asked."

"I did," Dega admits in a way that sounds suspiciously like _fuck you_.

"It’s really that hard for you to believe, isn’t it."

Dega rolls his eyes and tries to put a bit of distance between them, and Henri's wised up enough to let him do it. He waits Dega out and is rewarded when Dega sighs and offers him a smile and a truce. "Regardless, we should focus on escaping first. We'll figure out the rest when the moment comes."

“Alright. But I meant what I said." He doesn’t blink as Dega stares up at him. “It’s just that simple.”

Dega hums and Henri thinks that’s progress--it’s not an agreement but it’s not bullshit either. Henri shifts until he’s looming over Dega and he watches with pleasure as the black of Dega’s eyes pool wide, his cheeks flushing dark.

“I told you before,” Henri murmurs, and despite whatever reservations Dega has he arches into Henri like a flower turning up toward sunlight. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

✧ ✧ ✧

Enduring the amused, curious stares of the old men who had witnessed his intimate confrontation with Papi the night before is humiliating, but Louis does his best to keep his chin up as he dresses and ties his boots. He distracts himself by wondering what it is about the light of morning that makes him tame, apologetic, where he had been wild with anger and hurt only hours before. Sleep, he supposes, cures most ails.

Waking to find Papillon staring at him with unadulterated adoration makes it easy to yield to softness, too.

He thinks about that as Papi walks him to the hospital gate. They’re both mellow, muted, and Louis regrets that he can’t bring himself to touch Papi in farewell as he leaves for the Route. 

Honesty. 

Louis dwells on the concept as he greets Bordeaux with forced cheer and begins his morning chores at the infirmary. Lies have always come naturally--lies protect him, keep him safe, where honesty has only ever hurt. Even with Clara every truth was tempered with restraint, as though she might tire of him if she knew how much he loved her, might leave if she knew how often and how staggeringly fierce his melancholy strikes. But Louis scrubs at a particularly stubborn bloodstain and wonders if he trusts Papillon enough to give in and show him the ugliness, the traitorous doubts and the cruel hopes in his heart. 

It’s what Papi says he wants. Maybe Louis should be honest, maybe he should be candid about how ludicrous Papi’s ambitions are, how trite the concept of _together_ is when a man like Papi could go anywhere, be with anyone, and never know how blessed he is to be handsome, strong, and well-liked. Maybe Louis should speak his mind and see how long it takes Papillon for turn his back in disgust.

He rubs too hard at the sheet and frowns, wondering who would really win, either way. Does he want to be proven right? Would he be glad to be wrong, to have Papi’s genuine devotion for the rest of his life?

His head hurts at how laughable the concept is. But then he thinks of Papi’s hands on him, his mournful anger, of the way that he’d sounded like he was telling the truth when he’d made his pretty promises. He swallows around the tightness in his throat and for the first time actually tries to imagine it: a safe place, serene and comfortable, with Papillon. 

Louis stares down at the stubborn stain, hands going still. 

A home with a garden, a crackling fireplace, the sound of rain and the lilting lullaby of familiar songbirds. Sea-green grass and birch trees instead of the tropical tangle of the jungles of French Guiana. Waking up to Papi’s teasing smile and falling asleep to his gentle touch. 

It’s a nice thought. Louis closes his eyes to ease the sudden sting. It’s a nice thought, a wonderful fantasy, and it’s hard to believe it could be anything more. But Papillon needs him to believe and Louis decides that it’s okay to try. He’ll hold hope in his heart and he won’t be surprised when he finds himself alone, won’t even be disappointed, because he’s been on borrowed time for a while. 

_But it’s okay to try,_ he tells himself again and resumes scrubbing at the sheet, feeling calm. At worst he’ll be dead, and despite enduring many sermons on fire and brimstone he doesn’t believe in heaven or hell, and he decides that death isn’t too high a price if it means that Papillon gets out alive.

And if, _if_ , they pull it off, if they survive and find themselves with the luxury of a future, he’ll know that he bought it with blood and he’ll hold on tight.

✧ ✧ ✧

Henri struggles through the day.

Despite his best efforts to think of nothing, his doubts have no trouble finding him as he works and he’s helpless against the guilt that pecks him bloody. His mind circles endlessly back to the night before. The things he’d said, the things he’d _done_. He’d gone too far. He’d touched Dega with the intention to _hurt him_ and that makes him queasy with shame. Dega had joked around and seemed fine that morning, understanding even, but Henri worries that he only saw what he wanted to find in Dega--forgiveness, trust. Dega could be so evasive when it suited him, sleek and smiling in his easy surrender, and Henri wonders if he’d fallen prey to Dega’s big eyes again. 

“Shit,” he sighs, bracing his elbows against the cart and hardly feeling the hot sting of metal. “Shit.”

He feels Celier approach before he hears him, like the man’s anger is a physical force pressed up against the back of his head, and he turns to watch as the ex-sailor heaves two large chunks of rock up and over the edge of the cart. Celier’s eyes are sharp and for a moment Henri wants to lie down and give up. 

“Papi,” he greets with his usual vigor, nothing of his temper betrayed in his voice. Henri only gives him a tired nod and Celier looks him up and down. “What, you still twisted up about last night?”

Henri frowns with disbelief. 

Celier’s look turns knowing. “What, you think I am? Not the first time a little punk has mouthed off to me.”

It takes a very deliberate effort to keep from bristling, but Henri manages it pretty well. “Not the way it looked last night.”

Celier gives a forgiving shrug. 

“You’re not mad.” Henri doesn’t have the patience to phrase it like a question.

“Where would that get me?”

“Nowhere,” Henri says with particularly forceful emphasis. Celier only laughs.

“Relax, Papi. I’m not stupid. I’m not going to go for him.”

 _Goddamn right you’re not,_ Henri thinks, eyes narrowing, but if Celier notices he pretends not to.

“About time he grew a pair,” Celier says and smiles with his teeth. “But we have bigger concerns.”

Henri sighs and leans more of his weight against the cart. “Not today.”

“Papi--”

“I know. But not today. Dega wasn’t bullshitting you--we don’t have anything yet.”

Celier’s face flickers with disappointment, but it’s better than anger. He tuts and looks over his shoulder, and Henri follows his gaze to find Santini looking in their direction. 

“Guess we’d better get back to it.” Celier slaps Henri on the back and Henri grumbles but doesn’t retaliate. Celier seems to read that as _we’re all good_ and he walks off with the easy swagger of a man who got his way.

Henri licks his lips and wishes for water and follows. He goes back to work and he wonders why he’d been so blunt with Dega about not knowing--not _caring_ \--why he cares as much as he does. He’s okay with going with it, always happy follow his gut, but he belatedly realizes that Dega is most definitely not that kind of man. Henri’s mouth twitches in a begrudging smile as he imagines having to present his rationale for his attraction, having to justify himself like he’s pleading his case before a judge again. He just hopes it wouldn’t have a similar outcome as his murder trial.

He sweats, pushes and pulls, lifts and drops, and at last he apprehensively allows himself to wonder _why_. He pants and pictures Nennete--a beautiful, lively, intelligent woman by any regard, all sharp teeth and hungry eyes, and still can’t entertain her fantasy. _I love you,_ she’d said frequently in those last precious weeks, and he’d been a smartass in turn. _Prove it,_ he’d dare; _not as much as that bottle of wine,_ he’d joke; _say that again, slower,_ he’d whisper. He’d never once said it back.

He thinks of Dega trembling underneath him in the barracks the night before, scared and angry and helpless, and he wonders why he can see spilling himself into bed with him after a long day of honest work and falling asleep without needing to say a word, knowing he’ll be happy to wake up and do it all over again, day after day, for as long as Dega will have him.

 _Six months,_ he’d said to Nennete. He hadn’t said what would happen after that, he’d never actually promised to take her away from it all--he’d been callous and clever enough to be vague. _Six months until I’m richer than Castili,_ is all that he’d vowed.

He thinks of the promises he’s forced on Dega and tries to feel surprised at how easily his desire to build a life together had come. But there’s only that same fierce resolution. He wishes he could show it to Dega, wishes that he could find the words, but what could he say to a man who needed to believe but refused to be convinced? He doesn’t think he’s being arrogant in his certainty that Dega wants the same thing that he wants. He knows it in the same way he knows the sun will set and rise again, knows it deep in his bones.

 _Forget about me,_ he’d told Nennete, nearly in the same breath that he’d discussed escaping. He hadn’t thought about it at the time but now the message seems clear-- _even if I get out, I’m not coming back to you_. Maybe she hadn’t heard it that way, but Henri thinks maybe that is how he meant it.

He hadn’t loved her. 

He cares for her, just as he’d said, and she’ll always be a part of him, but he hadn’t _loved_ her. He thinks of Dega’s quiet betrayal on her behalf and dares to wonder if he’d been thinking of himself instead, if he had been questioning if Henri was the kind of man capable of love.

 _He’s a cynical bastard,_ Henri thinks, and he’s nearly overcome with a weariness that has nothing to do with the muscle-cramping labor. He spends the rest of the day thinking of Dega pulling away from his touch and wondering how much more he can stand.

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis is lost in distraction. Decision made to trust in Papillon’s delusions, he scrubs and sweeps and wonders why he had felt the need to overthink things in the first place. If Papi’s offering pleasure and silly promises, it only makes sense to embrace them. What was the alternative? Making them both suffer just to prove to Papi that it’s all an exercise in futility? Even if it _is_ pointless, it’s all that Louis has. He makes himself a quiet vow: whatever Papi decides to do at the bitter end, Louis will be glad for the time they’d had together.

His misguided martyrdom about it all seems embarrassing in hindsight.

He thinks of every patient smile, every comforting touch, every time the other man has stepped between him and a fist or a blade and feels comforted by his newfound decision to trust in his loyalty.

✧ ✧ ✧

Toward the end of the day Louis realizes that he’s in a good mood and he finds that funny. He’s reminded of his decision to propose to Clara--he’d agonized over it for weeks, had nearly given himself an ulcer with indecision, had allowed doubt to plague his every waking moment. But the second he made his decision it was as if a weight had dropped away. He’d bought a ring the very same day. Louis can’t exactly do the same for Papi, but there’s that same feeling of being oddly at peace, oddly safe in having made a choice.

As soon as Guibert releases him he decides to seek Papi out and agree to be agreeable, to fight for the kind of future he knows Papi has dreamed up. He smiles warmly at Bordeaux as he leaves, and he walks and worries that he’ll give in to cowardice once they’re face-to-face, but when he spots Papillon smoking and chatting with the barrack turnkey he’s relieved that the sight of him does nothing to upset his newfound determination. He hesitates and wonders if Papi will see his resolution immediately, if he’ll understand the moment they lock eyes. If not… Louis studies the halo of sunlight that’s settled around Papi’s smiling face and thinks he knows exactly which words he’ll use to convince him, if it comes to that.

Papi laughs out smoke at something their turnkey says and Louis isn’t quite close enough to hear him, but he feels a fond tug in his ribs at the sight, which is shortly followed by an even stronger tug on his wrist. He’s abruptly pulled off of the path and pushed against the side of the barrack, and he wheezes as he hits the wall and the air is forced from his lungs. He chokes, stunned, as two inmates crowd in close. Louis recognizes one as the man Bordeaux had chased off. He immediately understands that they’re stupid enough to hurt him in broad daylight and he knows that he needs to fight back. He freezes up. He can’t remember a single thing that Papi taught him, can’t even catch his breath, he can only stare in dumb surprise as the man grabs the collar of his shirt and twists.

Papillon’s fist connects with the side of the inmate’s head and he’s on the ground at Louis’ feet before Louis has the chance to comprehend his good fortune. The man’s friend darts in, hands raised, but Papi’s deft jab easily breaks through and smashes into his nose. The stranger squeals like a stuck pig, gushing blood, and stumbles back. Louis feels his skin tingle as he watches Papillon round on the first man, who is climbing to his feet and shouting, but Louis ignores the slur tosses out against them in favor of witnessing Papi’s easy grace. There’s poetry in the violence, in Papi’s fluid confidence, and seeing him in motion never fails to leave Louis breathless. He watches as Papi bloodies his knuckles for his sake and feels a warm ribbon of admiration weave between his ribs. 

And then it’s over, nearly too soon for Louis’ liking. Papi’s barely broken a sweat but the two convicts grunt and gasp on the ground, spewing obscenities and threats.

“Fuck you,” Papi spits down at them.

The first man howls as Papi kicks him in the back. He crawls and then scrambles to his feet and staggers away, eyes bulging, and his friend follows with his hands cupped over his dripping nose. Louis stares down at the small streak of smeared blood left in his wake and thinks of a snail trail. He manages not to laugh, but only just barely.

He looks up to find that Papi is still in the midst of his victorious puffing. He’s got that animal sneer, aglow with bloodthirsty delight, and Louis’ stomach twists. Desire sweeps through him with all the subtlety of a house on fire. 

When Papi turns to him with lightning in his eyes he can only stare, pulse thumping, and lick his lips. 

“You okay, Dega?”

“Yes, I’m fine, thank you.” Louis wants so fiercely he feels dizzy with it.

Papi’s fight-wild eyes soften with curiosity. “Did you hit your head?”

“No,” Louis says indignantly, but maybe he _did_ because all he can think about is griping Papi tight and getting his skin under his mouth. 

Papi suddenly clues into the thunderous approval in Louis’ hungry gaze, and he preens like a showpony at the appreciation like that’s all the reward he needs for battering his knuckles and making two bitter new enemies. Louis relaxes against the building and smiles as Papi braces a hand against the wall near Louis’ head and leans in close to tease him.

“You like the show, sweetheart?” 

It’s a joke, an exaggerated imitation of seduction, and a quip is quick to find itself to Louis’ tongue but he ignores it; his mind is burning through the possibilities of _more_. Behind the buildings was too dangerous, the walkway too exposed, the barracks too crowded--

Louis swallows down a mouthful of saliva. “Come with me,” he murmurs, and Papi stares at him as though drawn in by the way his voice comes out low and rough. He allows Louis to push off of the wall and follows, docile at the prospect of what he might have in mind, and Louis enjoys a thrill of power in that moment. 

He leads them toward the storage buildings but is pulled to a stop once Papi realizes where they’re going. 

“Not a good idea,” Papi warns, husky and strained with disappointed, “much as I appreciate the sentiment, it’s not safe.”

“Trust me.”

It’s a lot to ask. Louis knows this, knows that Papillon is rightfully wary of his quicksilver moods, but Papi nods without hesitation. Louis casts a careful eye around and then moves with certainty, with _authority_ , to the storage building second from the end. Papi follows on his heels and makes a noise of surprise when Louis opens the door and slips inside. 

Louis stands in the gloom, blinking the remnants of sunlight from his eyes, and turns when he feels a wide hand on his hip. 

“Dega, what--”

“I forgot to lock it,” Louis murmurs, taking a step backward, further into the room and away from the door, and Papi follows as if pulled along on a string. “They keep excess medical supplies here. I had to retrieve some things for the doctor yesterday. My hands had been full on the way back--I never thought to lock it.”

He flushes as his eyes adjust enough to fully appreciate the ravenous look on Papi’s face. He backs into the desk in the center of the room until he can feel the edge press against his thighs.

“Guibert’s gone for the day,” he whispers. “No one will come.”

It’s a stupid risk, but it’s not one that they’ll lose their heads over if they’re caught, and he can feel a clock ticking against him--he wants to spend as much time with Papi as possible. Papi looks like he’s thinking the same thing.

“Tell me what you want,” Papi murmurs.

Louis tenses, surprised that it’s going to be a discussion. “Anything,” he says with confidence, but he fears that his eyes betray him. It’s hard to admit it out loud--he doesn’t know what he wants, much less how to ask for it, but he trusts Papi and he wants to prove that.

Papillon studies his face for long enough that Louis starts to fidget. “What?” he demands, and Papi twists the side of his mouth up at the impatience in his voice.

“Anything’s not much to go on,” he admits. “Want to give me a hint?”

“I don’t know. I don’t care.”

Papi raises his eyebrows as if he can’t think of a delicate way of asking what he wants to know. Louis kindly decides to volunteer the information.

“Clara and I,” he starts, and he only stumbles for a moment at the mention of his wife, “we weren’t… adventurous.”

Papi doesn't seem especially surprised by that. “And before her?”

“Not much different.”

“All women?”

“Yes. Until--Yes. Although I’m not sure if that… counts.”

“Not any more than being punched in the mouth counts as a kiss.”

Louis offers a pained smile at the vehemence in the statement, and then makes an effort to exorcise El Caimán from the space between them by refusing to acknowledge him any further. “Then, yes. All women.”

“But you’ve wanted men as well.”

“Yes.”

“What stopped you?” Papi asks lightly, as though giving permission for Louis to joke his way out of it, but Louis' eyes skitter away. He doesn’t want to laugh it off.

“I didn’t think it was worth the risk.”

“Risk of what?”

Louis stares at the far wall and makes a herculean attempt to find the words, but Papi abruptly abandons his curiosity.

“Nevermind,” he murmurs and leans in to kiss him, and when he pulls away again Louis’ mouth curls in a smile in appreciation for the interruption. Papi considers him, eyes blown dark. “Tell me what you want. I’ll make it good for you.”

Louis tries not to feel flattered by the naked longing in his face. Papi's gaze drops to his mouth and Louis is suddenly struck by how _young_ he looks. Papi is six years his junior, and confronted with his playful smile six years suddenly feels like a long time.

Louis fights down a shiver of uncertainty. Papillon has made it clear that he's fond of him, that he enjoyed both of their too-brief moments of intimacy, and the fact that he desires more is a message well watered with words and warm hands and watchful eyes, but Louis has his doubts about the longevity of that attraction. It's hard to have standards in prison. Papi had denied the desire to seek out women once they have their freedom, but looking at the handsome cut of his jaw and his easy grin it's impossible to imagine that Louis would ever be enough.

But...

 _Why not?_ something inside of him asks, and it’s a reedy, desperate voice born from the loneliest part of him. _Why not?_

He clears his throat and changes the subject to avoid repeating the truth--that he’d take whatever Papi was willing to give, even if it hurt. “What about you? Many men in your life before Nennete?” he asks, pretending not to be watching closely as Papi aims for nonchalance.

“Not lately.”

“Why? You’re young, you have _some_ redeeming qualities, and you lived in Paris for quite some time--I’m sure you had plenty of eager men to choose from."

Papi shrugs. “I’m pretty picky.”

Louis finds that funny and more than a little hard to believe. “Are you?” he challenges blithely. The word _floozy_ helpfully floats up from recent memory.

Papi grins again, his eyes crinkling in the corners, and Louis realizes his mistake. He can’t bring himself to regret it though, not when Papi is making that face and looking so damn proud of himself for walking Louis into his trap.

“C’mon, Dega--I have standards.”

It turns out to be bait that Louis can’t resist.

“Do tell,” he drawls out, leaning back against the desk and indulging his smile a little longer. “Who is the perfect man for Henri Charrière?"

“Well, he’s gotta be smart.” Papi’s grin turns flirtatious and Louis is stunned by the easy charisma of it. “He’s gotta dress better than me--”

“I'm not certain that that's a high standard.”

“And he’s got to be kind of an asshole,” Papi laughs. “Just to keep me on my toes.”

“Of course.”

"He's gotta be able to treat me right," Papi says wistfully, and that earns him an outright bark of laughter.

"Oh?"

"I can't be expected to pay for my own coffee all the time."

"Unthinkable.”

Papi leans in closer, pleased with the banter, but he clearly doesn’t anticipate that Louis will accept the obvious conclusion--that _Louis_ is what he wants--and Louis tries to let himself believe. The thought of sitting in a café together sends a warm trickle of want through his belly.

"I would,” he says.

"What?"

"Buy you coffee."

It takes all the courage Louis has in his heart to let the declaration rest in the space between them without following it up with a well-timed joke. Papi looks like he can't quite believe what he heard and is going to try to make Louis confess it again, but in the end he can only smile, clearly charmed.

"I'll keep that in mind," he answers, and the coyness in his voice sends a thrill up Louis' spine. 

He recognizes the open want in Papi’s eyes, in his voice, and wonders how he’d ever doubted him. Papi moves to stand between his legs and wraps his wide hands around his waist, pressing him down against the surface of the desk. Louis stutters out a breath and burns.

✧ ✧ ✧

Henri keeps pinned Dega down with one hand and walks the other under his shirt, dragging his nails lightly against Dega’s skin and marveling at the turn of events. If he’d known that all he’d needed to win Dega over was one more good fistfight, he would’ve found some mean bastard to beat senseless weeks ago.

His thumb grazes a nipple and Dega flinches like a cat. Henri looks up and Dega has the grace to look embarrassed, and Henri wonders again about Dega’s experience. He wants to know what Dega likes, what gets him breathless and bothered, wants to know the things that Dega would think about if he had the opportunity to touch himself. 

He resists the temptation to ask again--he’ll just have to figure it out on his own. It’s a challenge he finds he’s looking forward to. He strokes his thumb again and he’s pleased at the way it makes Dega squirm. He presses in closer, moving slowly and broadcasting his intentions to give Dega the chance to change his mind, but Dega greets him with warm, eager fingers.

“I want to look at you,” Henri murmurs against his ear and delights in the shiver that runs through Dega.

He half expects a joke, can feel it just as plainly as the heartbeat in the smaller man’s pulse as he kisses him on the neck-- _you’ve seen me in the showers countless times, Papi_ \--but Dega sucks in air and nods against the side of his head.

Henri wastes no time in tugging Dega’s shirt up over his head and they only fumble for a moment when his glasses get caught. Henri pauses to drink in the sight. Dega shifts restlessly under his eyes, looking shy but earnest, and Henri presses their mouths together quickly before dropping to his knees.

Dega makes a noise of surprise and his flush mottles a shade darker. Henri wisely decides against telling Dega it’s an excellent look on him.

“You good with this?” he asks. His heart thumps hard in his throat when Dega can only manage to lick his lips and nod.

Henri eases the hem of his pants down. Dega helpfully shifts his hips to help the process, and Henri makes an appreciative sound when confronted with smooth flesh. He presses his fingers against the soft skin of Dega’s thighs and then puts his mouth on him. Dega swears and throws his head back. 

It’s been a while but Henri finds his pace and soon he's lost in the familiarity of it. He lowers his right hand and snakes it into his own pants and works himself feverishly. He delights in the way that Dega pants and murmurs his name, at the way his needy fingers card along his scalp, and he gives an appreciative moan. Dega's answering sound of satisfaction sends a sharp thrill through his blood, and he burns with regret at having his hair shorn short--he thinks of how long it had been before his arrest, thinks about how he wants Dega to be able to sink his fingers in and get a good grip.

Dega suddenly bites his fist to keep from making too much noise and Henri laments that too, because understands the need for silence but he’s greedy for the sounds that stutter out. He hums around Dega and twists his palm against his own cock, and Dega starts to pant harder when he glances down to bear witness to it all. 

When Dega swears out his nickname it sounds like a prayer.

Henri moves quickly, driven by the symphony of breathy, punched-out sounds muffled behind Dega’s fist, and he finishes first, though not by much. Dega tries to pull away as he approaches the edge but Henri grips him with sticky hands and keeps him in place, wanting it all. 

Dega shudders as he pulls off and presses a hot-mouthed kiss into his stomach, and then Henri glances up to see something not unlike love softening Dega’s eyes. He runs his fingers along Henri’s scalp again, so gently it makes something in Henri ache, and then sinks boneless against the desk. Henri staggers up from his knees and lays down half on top of him despite the broiling stillness of the room--he needs the contact and he’s relieved when Dega doesn’t protest or try to push him off the desk.

“Papi,” he says, quiet and with reverence, and his nimble fingers begin to caress Henri’s back. 

Henri swallows hard against a punch of grief. He suddenly thinks of the likelihood that they’re both going to die and buries his nose in Dega’s damp hair as though hiding his face could banish the horror that wells up inside of him.

“It’s okay,” Dega murmurs. 

Henri’s never heard that tone in his voice, honeyed and calm and knowing. He draws back and finds Dega’s glittering eyes in the gloom. Dega’s hands don’t stop their tender trailing and Henri decides that it’s okay to collapse back against him for a while longer. Dega makes a noise, something sweet, and Henri brings a weak hand up to wrap around his neck and stroke a thumb along his jawline. 

They lie in the sweltering stillness for a time, and when Dega finally stirs and tries to get up Henri finds that he’s reluctant to let go. Dega grumbles out a joke that Henri hardly hears and slides away; Henri watches as he stretches and dresses languidly, like they’ve all the time in the world, but Henri’s heart is cold with the knowledge that the exact opposite is true. He can’t bring himself to stand, not even after Dega cracks another quip and wanders away to explore the back of the room. 

Henri stares at the ceiling and wrestles his fear, and he’s only startled out of his grim reverie when Dega coughs out a laugh. 

Henri sits up. He watches as Dega glances over, looking embarrassed. 

“What?” Henri asks, and they’re both very much aware of the rasp in his voice. His throat feels pleasantly sore and he finds himself hoping that it lasts for a while as a reminder of the service he’s paid on his knees.

“Nothing,” Dega says, and Henri accepts the dismissal in favor of watching him move quietly between the shelves, examining various medical supplies. Henri has no desire to explore Guibert’s inventory, but he pays attention when Dega makes another noise of surprise. This time Henri doesn’t have to ask.

“ _Isopropyl. Highly flammable in the presence of heat, sparks, or an open flame_ ,” Dega reads in perfect English. He touches a brown glass bottle, angling it on the shelf. “ _Store in a tightly closed container in a cool, dry, well-ventilated area. Keep away from possible ignition sources._ ”

Henri immediately understands, but for a moment he’s too stunned by the suggestion to do anything but stare in wonder.

“I may have an idea. It’s not a particularly good one, but…”

“Dega,” he breathes out at least, mischievous with mock outrage. 

“This could be useful for a distraction.”

Henri pushes off of the desk; he makes his way to Dega in order to crowd in close and loom over him. “Fire setting? I must be a bad influence,” he murmurs, and Dega smiles crookedly in amusement.

“I suppose so.”

Henri leans in and could swear that he can smell himself on the smaller man. He wants to rub against Dega until he’s convinced without a doubt that it’s true. 

“Likely not our best bet,” Dega continues, oblivious to the ridiculous thoughts in Henri’s head, “but we should keep it in mind.”

Henri nods, abruptly overcome. He doesn’t want to talk about their plan. He stares down at Dega like he’s never going to see him again, and in a moment of insanity he wonders if it’s better to wait. Dega only has a five year sentence--Henri can protect him in the meantime, and Dega can help him break out after that. But then he thinks of the two men who were stupid enough to go for Dega in broad daylight, even with Henri back from the Route already. He thinks of Dega near defenseless in the infirmary, of what could happen if Henri becomes ill again or injured too badly to protect him, and knows that he can’t be with Dega every second of the day.

"What's wrong?" Dega breathes out, a crinkle of concern forming on his forehead. Henri searches his eyes.

"Nothing." His voice is a barely-there murmur, and he's rewarded for abstaining from a joke when Dega reaches up to stroke his face. Dega has to go tiptoe to kiss him properly and Henri pushes flush against him and grips him too tight.

“So you’re the sentimental type,” Dega teases gently, and Henri has to smile because he remembers saying something similar, remembers giving Dega shit about being shy in the barracks.

“Only when it matters.”

It’s too honest. Dega’s amusement falters and Henri wishes he could take it back, but then Dega tilts his head and smiles like he’s content with the confession.

“Quite the charmer, too.”

Henri swallows and wonders why he feels like crying instead of laughing. He doesn’t do either. Instead, he settles on pressing another bruising kiss to Dega’s mouth before Dega hums and leads him out into the evening. There’s a faint breeze and Henri drinks it in with relief. It feels wonderful after the oppressive stillness of the storage building; he thinks he can smell the sea and sighs out quietly through his nose.

There’s an answering sound, another hum of contentment. He turns to see Dega regarding him fondly, cheeks brushed rosy with exertion and sunlight.

✧ ✧ ✧

Dega seems different after that. At first Henri is deeply suspicious of his easy agreement and the open affection in his eyes, but as one day turns into three he starts to understand that something has changed between them. He’d like to flatter himself and attribute it to a particularly spectacular blowjob, but he thinks it came somewhere before, somewhere between crushing Dega down against the concrete slab in the barrack and beating the shit out of two overly optimistic inmates. He thinks about it after Dega falls asleep, worries about it on the Route, and after four days he gives up and decides to be grateful.

And he is grateful--grateful for the way that Dega sometimes looks at him like he hung the stars in the sky, grateful for the way that he still gives Henri shit at every opportunity, grateful for the way that he tucks in close at night without being asked, without being pursued. 

He’s less appreciative of Dega’s ambitions. 

Dega puts his effort into actually planning an escape instead of lying to Henri, and Henri is eager to hear his ideas until he realizes that they’re all the wrong ones. Ones in which Henri escapes and Dega is released on his appeal and they meet up somewhere in the wide world after that. 

“No,” he grouses, when Dega brings it up for the third time in one day. 

Dega fixes him with a stern look and sighs as Henri outlines Celier’s plan to swim across the river and hope for the best on the other side. 

“We’ll need more money than what I have left,” Dega says slowly, like maybe if he drags the words out they’ll actually land this time. “You know that.”

“We’ll make some,” Henri protests, crowding him against their corner in the barrack.

“Papi--”

“I can find things to steal. Find a safe or two.”

“No.”

“Dega--”

“ _No_ ,” Dega says, using a voice that Henri had only heard back on the ship. Confident, sure, unyielding. “A safecracker escapes, and then a safe is broken into it?” Dega shakes his head. “They’ll be on your trail immediately. You’ll need to lie low for a while, let them assume you died in the bush, and that’s not the way to do it.”

“ _We’ll_ need to lie low, you mean,” Papi interrupts, but Dega ignores him.

“I told you about the cache.”

The cache. It’s become the main obstacle in bending Dega to his will. The cache--half a million francs that Dega had ferreted away before his arrest, a secret fund for _just in case_ , one that even Clara hadn’t known about. Dega had simply shrugged at Henri’s surprise at that, and Henri had been consumed with curiosity--had Dega not trusted his wife? He knows better than to ask out loud.

“It’ll be enough to set us up,” Dega says, running his finger along the scratched letters on the barrack wall. “All we need to do is access it.”

“You mean, all _you_ need to do is access it.”

Dega twists his mouth and doesn’t argue. His fingertip pauses along a word that isn’t written in any language that Henri knows. “If I’m released, I’ll be free to reacquire it. If I escape, odds are that we’ll never set foot in France again. We’ll both be wanted men and we’ll never be able to stop running.”

“I don’t care,” Henri says, and means it.

“I do. I’m not going to live out the rest of my life in the jungle, Papi.”

Henri grumbles and scratches at his jaw and tries to think of a clever argument. He doesn’t come up with anything, so he settles for a stupid one. “We could be farmers.”

That startles a laugh out of Dega, one so violent that it has him struggling to catch his breath. Henri sighs and leans back against the wall and waits him out. 

“Papi…” Henri can see Dega shaking his head from the corner of his eye as he chokes in air. “No.”

“Wouldn’t be so bad. You’d have a garden, at least.”

“A farm is not a garden.”

“A farm can _have_ a garden.”

“No.”

“We could raise pigs. Or sheep.” Henri bumps their shoulders together and grins at him. “It’d be perfect, you’ll love them. They’ve got those big eyes, just like you--”

Dega makes an indignant noise and puffs up.

“Or chickens,” Henri says, thinking of Dega’s more bird-like qualities. “Ducks.”

“I am not going to be a farmer--not of crops, and certainly not of pigs or ducks or sheep or any other livestock.”

Henri keeps talking even though he knows it’s a lost cause; he drones on about seeds and horses and rolling hills until Dega decides to take a vengeful nap against him. Henri quiets and lets him sleep, and raises his head to stare down a handful of convicts that stare back as they wander in for the night; some snigger and joke while others look wistful with envy, but the threat in Henri’s sharp eyes turns them all away.

✧ ✧ ✧

There isn’t a word in French, English, or the little bit of German that Henri knows that can convey just how _spectacularly_ stubborn Dega is.

“I’m not leaving without you,” Henri tries the next day. 

Dega just curls the side of his mouth in a sly smile and kisses him, and Henri’s not stupid enough for that to be a distraction but he can’t bring himself to push Dega away in order to finish the conversation.

“Castili will kill you before you can get to your money,” Henri whispers the next night.

Dega buries his face in Henri’s neck and tells him to go back to sleep.

“I can’t lose you,” he confesses next, and that at least gets Dega’s attention. He raises his head to frown at Henri, even though he can’t possibly see him without his glasses, not even in the full light of the moon. 

“Trust me, Papi,” Dega murmurs.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you.”

Dega shifts and braces his head on his hand, half asleep. “Then let me do this. It’s the best solution. It’s the _only_ solution.”

“Get Guibert to send you back to the Route.”

“No.”

“If you’re on the Route, you’re right there with us, we can go together,” Henri continues as if he hadn’t heard. “There’s no reason for you to stay behind.”

Dega groans. Henri knows that they’re going in circles but he can’t help himself. Short of physically dragging Dega out of the prison, there’s nothing else to do but try to convince him. “We’ve been over the reasons. You know the reasons, Papi.”

“They’re not good enough.”

Dega hums and closes his eyes like he’s not going to entertain the debate any longer. 

“I can’t just leave you behind,” Henri tells him.

“You have to.” Dega’s voice is kind but the certainty in it stabs deep. “This is how it has to be.”

“That’s bullshit.” Henri tries to keep his temper but it spills out at the edges where he’s frayed raw from worrying about Dega being left behind with the other inmates, about Dega in Castili’s hands. “That’s bullshit and you know it.”

Dega opens his eyes and stares at nothing. “I need to stay.”

“You can’t,” Henri says through gritted teeth.

“It’s okay. It’ll be worth it, I promise you that much.”

“I don’t give a shit about the money.” _And your promises don’t mean a damn thing_ , he thinks.

“I know. But you won’t survive without it.” Dega moves in closer, settling his head back down against Henri’s shoulder, and Henri nearly pushes him away. “You’ll need a new name--papers, passports, identification. There will be bribes to pay.”

Henri knows he’s not wrong but his desperation devours every lick of common sense. He keeps trying for a while longer, and Dega waits until he’s run out of things to say. He nestles in closer and sighs when Henri finally gives up.

“Make your peace with it, Papi. Don’t be angry with me.”

Henri clenches his jaw and pulls Dega closer in one harsh movement, wrapping his arms around him and squeezing too tightly, but Dega doesn’t protest at the rough treatment. He squeezes back right up until he falls asleep.

Henri lies awake and stares at the ceiling.


	14. Quatorze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm fuckin. tired. I was planning on sleeping for like two days straight but my dumbass is like "no, we're going to proofread and post 10k _right now"_ because I have no impulse control. 
> 
> Anyway, love you guys, thank you for being so nice all the time!! ♡

“Slow day today. Not even a fight.”

Louis smiles and inclines his head at Bordeaux, but he’s not really listening. His thoughts stay firmly with the envelope tucked into the back of his shirt, a feather-light weight against his spine, and he’s distracted with worrying about sweating on the letter. 

“Better here than Route Zero.” Louis tunes back into the conversation mid-complaint and he struggles to understand what Bordeaux’s grumbling about. He nods and pretends to agree as the guard tips his hat back so that he can swipe his forehead. “But it’s worse than Île Saint-Joseph.”

The name draws Louis’ attention and he looks at Bordeaux in surprise. “You’ve been stationed there?”

Bordeaux shrugs. “Rotational shifts.”

Louis thinks of El Caimán and can nearly bring himself to ask if he’s there, if he’s alive. But not quite. “When did you transfer to the infirmary?” he asks instead.

“Little while after the last execution.”

 _Strange benchmark,_ Louis thinks, but he doesn’t allow himself to dwell on it. “What’s it like? Île Saint-Joseph.”

“Why? You thinking of running?”

It’s a joke but it makes Louis’ fingertips twitch all the same. He manages an incredulous laugh and shakes his head for emphasis. “Not with a five year sentence. I am curious, though. I’ve heard whispers.” 

“Better being stationed there than here,” Bordeaux says again, like that’s all the information Louis needs. “Got to walk around more. We sometimes mess with the guys there.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Dropping cigarettes. Drop them lit so the guys can smoke them. Unless you don’t like them, then they get unlit stubs. Sometimes they eat the tobacco if they can’t smoke them.”

 _That’s horrible,_ Louis thinks. “How interesting,” he says with a smile. He thinks of Papillon’s imminent escape attempt and tries to push down the thought of him in a place like that. “What about Devil’s Island? Are you assigned there, as well?”

Bordeaux offers him another shrug, ruddy face blank with disinterest. “Don’t get what the big deal is for the lifers. Going to be here until they die, at least the island’s less crowded. They can see the ocean.”

“That’s nice.”

“Kill themselves a lot. But they do that in Île Saint-Joseph, too. Here they mostly just get killed.”

The scar on Louis’ stomach twinges. He thinks of his many near-misses, of Papillon getting strangled with a length of cloth, and he tries not to show his disgust with the guard’s apathy on the subject. He lets Bordeaux change the subject to the weather again and is glad to find safer ground there, because it’s easy enough to stare up at the endless blue with the guard and pretend that his skin isn’t crawling. He offers Bordeaux the same farewell he always does when Papi shows up at the gate, but if his voice is a touch colder than it usually is Bordeaux doesn’t seem to notice. 

The gate opens and shuts, and Papi immediately touches his arm when he approaches, smiling and smelling of smoke. 

“Let’s go to the walkway,” he says once they’re out of Bordeaux’s earshot. 

Papi frowns. 

“It’s been weeks,” Louis argues against the unspoken protest. “Cormier can’t be checking it every day. And even if he does--he’s gone this long without bludgeoning us, I doubt he’ll be inclined to do so today.” Louis leans in a touch closer and keeps his voice low. “We need a bit of privacy.”

Papi lights up and Louis has to laugh at the anticipation on his face. “Oh yeah?”

“Not that,” Louis corrects with honest regret. “Good news came in today.”

Papi catches on easily enough, and suddenly he’s a different kind of excited.

✧ ✧ ✧

“ _Thank you for your letter,_ ” Henri reads, squinting to make sense of the sloppy scrawl. “ _And your… condolences._ At least I think that’s what that word’s supposed to be.”

Dega gives a theatrical sigh. “Thank goodness the doctor didn’t open it.”

“ _South America sounds wonderful._ Jesus christ, Julot. _I will come to visit. My friend owns a--restaurant. It’s near your prison._ ” He pauses, skimming ahead. Dega waits patiently, and when Henri raises his head he can tell that Dega’s already figured it out. “Think he wants us to go to this place.”

“Yes, it sounds that way.” Dega’s brows draw together. “Does he give the name?”

“No. But he makes it sound like somewhere he’s been, he must have found it when he got out. Can’t be far if he’s telling us to go there.”

“That’s not much to go on. What else does he say?”

“Hard to tell,” Henri grumbles, but he does his best to parse meaning out of Julot’s messy handwriting and godawful spelling. “Says that his _friend_ will treat us--well, you--to dinner and new clothes once you get out.”

Dega rubs his fingers against his forehead as if fighting off a headache. “Thank God Guibert didn’t read this,” he says again. “Julot is hardly subtle.”

“Pretty sure he doesn’t even know that word.”

“Anything else?”

“ _I miss you terribly. I think of you often. I can’t wait to see you again,_ ” Henri reads slowly. He frowns. “I think he’s flirting with you.”

Dega stutters out a laugh, the thought inconceivable, and Henri wonders at the pinch of annoyance he feels until he stops to ask himself if he’s stupid enough to be jealous. Then he laughs, too. 

“He’s an idiot.” _And so am I._

“Maybe he’s flirting with you, Papi. He might have rightfully assumed that you’d be the one to read it.”

“True. That is a relief.” Dega laughs again and Henri grins down at the letter. “See? Told you that we could trust The Worm.” 

Dega treats him to his most theatrical eyeroll, but he smiles afterward. Henri passes the letter over and Dega only skims it once before handing it back. 

“Can’t exactly ask around about this place,” Henri complains. “Any ideas?”

Dega shakes his head and slowly drags his knuckles under his chin in the way he always does when he’s deep in thought. “Julot could have run in any direction. We have no idea how long the jungle extends before reaching any sort of civilization. It could take days, even if we knew what direction to take.”

Henri’s already come to the same conclusion. “We’ll figure it out.”

“It’s a risk to trust in this,” Dega warns.

“Don’t have much else.”

“The jungle isn’t easy terrain. It wouldn’t be difficult to become lost. Julot must have found this place purely by luck. The chance that you’ll be able to find it, too…”

Henri tries not to react to the way that Dega says ‘you’ and not ‘we’. Dega refuses to be swayed. Henri has come about as close to accepting that as he can get. “It’s possible, though. Julot did it.” It’s not necessary to point that out again, but he can’t stand the growing fear in Dega’s face. 

“Dehydration may be your biggest concern.”

“Aside from bullets.”

Dega sends him a hard look and Henri can only offer a crooked smile in return. “Yes. But hopefully we’ll be able to create a large enough diversion that they don’t get the opportunity to shoot at you.”

Henri thinks of fire, of the storage building and Dega’s soft skin. “We’ll figure it out,” he says again.

“We’ll have to. We don’t have enough for Celier’s boat anymore.”

Celier. “Shit. How the hell do I explain this to him?”

“You don’t,” Dega says sharply. “You can’t trust him--you can’t tell him about the letter, or the plan.”

“He has to go with me, Dega,” he says in his _shut the fuck up and listen to me voice_. It’s been a point of contention--Dega not trusting Celier to go with Henri, Henri not trusting Celier to stay behind with Dega. “You know that.” 

“All the same, you can’t tell him about this. If he says anything about this to anyone--”

“Why would he?”

“I don’t know, Papi, but it’s not worth the risk. Tell him about it after you get out. Or pretend you found the restaurant by accident. But you _cannot_ breathe a word about Julot or this plan before then.”

“Okay,” Henri agrees, just to set Dega at ease. “Okay.”

Dega predictably deflates with relief. He reaches out and lays a hand lightly on Henri’s knee, which Henri very much appreciates. He also very much regrets the fact that they’re on the walkway and not in the storage building, but they’d both come to a mutual agreement--they won’t utilize the building again until they need to, not until they’re ready to smuggle out supplies. 

As much as he wants to get Dega alone, he doesn’t have to ask himself why he’d rather put the escape off for as long as possible.

✧ ✧ ✧

Henri lies on his side and watches Dega, drenched in moonlight and drifting in and out of sleep. He smiles when Dega reaches out without opening his eyes, reassuring himself that Henri is still there, and despite the sticky heat Henri pulls him in. 

Dega allows himself to be dragged close. “Can’t sleep,” he mumbles.

“I noticed.”

Henri wraps a hand around his wrist just because he can, and when Dega sleepily traces his fingers over the back of his knuckles he nearly shivers at the light touch. 

“The hands of a safecracker,” Dega says quietly, mouth edging up into a smile. “An interesting career choice. However did that happen?” 

“Tried out a couple of things. I just happened to be good at getting into safes.”

“I see,” Dega hums. “I wonder what else you tried… Vehicle theft? Bank robbery?”

Henri laughs and doesn’t care that he might wake someone else up. “Nothing like that. Some odd jobs. Mostly just breaking and entering.” 

“Oh, a cat burglar,” Dega says with mock intrigue. Henri pinches him lightly, which makes Dega grunt and try to shift away, but Henri holds on tight. 

“Helped set me up with the right skills to get at a safe. Never needed one of Castili’s goons to break down a door for me. Was in and out before anyone even knew that I was there.”

“Hm.”

Henri strokes his thumb along the velvet-soft skin of his wrist, soothing where he’d pinched. “How did you get into forging bonds?”

Dega takes a few moments to answer, like he has to think about it. “I wanted more than what I had and I was always good at pretending.”

“No shit,” Henri mutters, but Dega has the grace to ignore him.

“I know my drawings aren’t much, but I assure you that I’m quite skilled with reproduction as long as I have a good reference to work from.”

“No shit,” Henri says again, grinning. “This, from the most infamous forger in France. What did your family think?”

Dega’s tone slips a shade toward wary. “About what?”

“About your criminal aptitude.”

“Ah. I haven’t seen my father in over twenty years. As far as I know he’s alive, but I’d already left home by the time I began my career as a forger.” Dega fidgets with discomfort, but he doesn’t pull his wrist out of Henri’s warm grip. “My mother died of tuberculosis when I young. She refused to be admitted to a sanatorium because of her faith. She believed that God was punishing her, and she prayed for forgiveness right up until the day she died.”

“Shit,” Henri mutters. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright. I don’t remember her well.”

“No?”

Dega makes a quiet noise of consideration. “I remember her dark skin, and how long her hair had gotten at the end. She had a gentle voice but she had a cold temper.” He pauses and licks his lips, like he’s not sure if he’s going to continue. Henri resumes stroking his wrist in a way that he hopes is soothing. “I wasn’t an easy child. She didn’t hurt me but she thought that food was a privilege to be earned, and if I upset her she would lock me out of the house to avoid the sight of me.”

Henri’s stomach turns. “Jesus.”

“She became worse once she was diagnosed.” Dega offers him a one-sided smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “But she was still better than my father.”

“Yeah?”

Dega gives one carefully-calculated shoulder shrug. “It’s a little funny. You’d think I’d have learned how to throw a punch with how often he used to beat me.”

Henri can see that the admission costs Dega dearly. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t offer a word of sympathy or a joke, he just keeps his heavy gaze on Dega’s moon-bright eyes and wonders if Dega had ever confessed it out loud before. Dega stares back, solemn and grateful.

“So, to answer your question, my parents don’t think much of anything at all about my moral failings. How about yours?”

“Haven’t seen them in a while, either. They’re probably not too happy about me being here but I’m not sure that they expected any different. Don’t doubt that they’re disappointed I didn’t take after them--probably wouldn’t have wound up in a South American penal colony if I’d become a school teacher, too.”

“What?”

Henri startles at the shock in Dega’s voice. “What?”

“Your parents are _school teachers?_ ”

“Yeah.” Henri can’t figure out what to make of Dega’s wide-eyed surprise. Dega’s gaze drops down to his tattoo, then flickers to where Henri’s hand is still holding his wrist, and he looks dumbfounded. “What?”

“I’d just assumed…”

“What?” Henri asks again. “That they were criminals?”

“Not necessarily.”

“That they were no good?” Henri teases.

“No, but--I don’t know.” Dega blinks and stares at Henri like he’s reassessing him, and Henri’s not sure if he’s amused or annoyed over the scrutiny. “Where did you learn to fight?”

“What?”

“The son of two school teachers. A simple safecracker. And yet you seem to have every convict in this place afraid of you.”

“Well, not every convict,” Henri says pointedly, looking him up and down, and Dega laughs. “And don’t forget that I’m a cat burglar, too.”

“Seriously, Papi--”

“I boxed a lot as a kid. And got into my share of fights,” he concedes, but Dega raises a brow, unimpressed. “More than my share, maybe.”

“Maybe,” Dega deadpans. 

“Living out in the country, there wasn’t much else to do sometimes. We didn’t all grow up with a silver spoon in our mouth, Dega. Living like that--sometimes a good fight was the best entertainment we’d get.”

Dega blinks with surprise. He opens his mouth only to close it again, like he’s confused. “Papi--I wasn’t raised in wealth,” he says, like it should be obvious.

“How the hell was I supposed to know that?” Henri complains. “You sure as shit act like it.” 

“Yes, that is the idea,” Dega drawls. 

“You were poor?”

“Not poor, no. We didn’t live in poverty. But sometimes close enough to it, I suppose--my parents certainly weren’t wealthy.”

“And you never learned to fight.”

“Before my arrest, I never thought I would need to.” He hesitates and then offers a dry smile. “But at least I’ve got you.”

It comes off like a joke, dripping with self-deprecation, but he sure as shit isn’t wrong. If Henri wasn’t around… He abruptly thinks about the envious glances thrown their way. He knows that the other men begrudge them the quiet comfort that they’ve found with one another, understanding that they’ll likely never have a moment of softness for themselves again. Most have life sentences, but even the ones that don’t are aware that their odds of surviving the penal colony are grim. Heat, exhaustion, starvation, violence. They’re as good as dead. Henri thinks they’re a lot like the ghosts from stories he used to hear as a child--lost and violent with hunger, bemoaning the life that they’d thrown away. 

He wonders if he would have wound up any different without Dega. 

Julot had changed everything. He’d told Henri what he would need and pointed out the man who could give it to him. If not for him… Henri thinks of Dega dead--by Tribouillard’s hand, by Caimán’s, by any one of the furious men that threaten Dega on a daily basis--and his chest gets tight. If not for Julot, Dega would almost certainly be dead and Henri would be every bit as alone and bitter as the others. 

But he’s not alone. 

He thinks about the fact that he only needs to lean in a little more to taste the salt on Dega’s skin, and Dega would gladly let him. He thinks of the way that the men had watched Dega the other day, trusting and happy, content to nap comfortably against him, and he feels ill knowing how easily he could have been an envious set of eyes on the other side of the barrack. What would it be like, to witness another man find and keep a precious thing, knowing that he would never have it for himself? Because it’s possible that someone else could have gotten to Dega first--there are no shortage of men like Henri, men with the strength and will to survive no matter the cost, but men like Dega? Henri thinks of the smaller man’s kinder nature, of his feminine face and quick wit and careless mouth, of the way that he doesn’t recoil from another man’s touch out of principle, and he thinks that it really isn’t any wonder that he has to fight so hard to keep him safe. 

If someone else had earned Dega’s trust first...

Henri’s never thought of himself as a particularly jealous man. He’d never minded sharing his partners--hell, he’d been with a _prostitute_ before his arrest--but he understands that he’s been given a rare gift and he can’t fight down an ugly swell of possessiveness at the notion of Dega tucked beneath someone else’s arm.

It would be hell.

He tangles his fingers with Dega’s and searches his moonlit eyes and murmurs, “it helps that I’ve got something to fight for.”

Dega smiles at him, half asleep already, and squeezes gently at his hand. “Papi--”

“I’ll find you. No matter what happens.”

“I know.”

Henri wonders if he’s thought about it, too--the innumerable ways that it could all go wrong. He wants to ask. He needs Dega to understand exactly what he’s promising, but Dega presses in and meets his mouth and then tells him to go to sleep, as though to shut him up. Henri pulls him in closer, tucking Dega’s head beneath his chin, and he waits until Dega falls sleep to whisper the words out loud.

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis elects to sit with Bordeaux on his lunch break. He’d spent what felt like half the night staring at Papillon and he’d woken with determination--he’s going to do what he needs to do. He starts by buttering the guard up by sharing his already meager portion of orange slices, which Bordeaux clearly enjoys but doesn’t express gratitude for. But that’s alright. Gratitude isn’t what Louis is after. He waits until Bordeaux makes a disparaging comment against the cafeteria and then he heaves a theatrical sigh.

“I’m going to find a steak the moment I walk out of here.”

“Yeah?” Bordeaux asks around Louis’ last piece of orange.

“Yes. I’m quite serious--the very first restaurant I find, I’m going to sit down and order the best steak on the menu.” 

Bordeaux grins at that, like he’s a little surprised a man like Louis would even enjoy such a thing as a fine cut of meat. Louis does his best not to be offended. “There’s one on the way into town,” he says.

“Oh?” Louis asks with perfect nonchalance. 

“Yeah. Food’s not great but the owner is okay. Serves steak, too. It’s the only place to eat for a while around here.”

“It’s on the road in from town?”

“Yeah.”

“Mm,” Louis hums thoughtfully, “do you recall the name? I’ve got a few years left here, but I’ll be sure to keep it in mind.”

“The Marina something.”

“Marina? Is it by the ocean?”

“No. Like I said, it’s off the road on the way here.”

“Ah, I haven’t seen the road,” Louis says apologetically. “We came from the boat, from the north.”

“Right.” Bordeaux bobs his head and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Is this road to the south of us, then? I don’t recall seeing it when we were marched in.”

“Yeah.”

“Is it a long drive until the restaurant?”

“Not really.”

“Well, in about five years I’m sure I’ll appreciate the recommendation.”

Bordeaux grunts in acknowledgement and Louis shifts the conversation slightly off course. He takes the opportunity to flatter Bordeaux by talking about the one and only restaurant that Louis had visited in the guard’s hometown, though he lies and says he’s been there three times. Bordeaux submits to the distraction without a second thought, and then he begins throwing out recommendations seemingly at random--the best place to get a beer, the best place to buy leather shoes, the best club in all the area. Louis listens and smiles politely.

✧ ✧ ✧

Alarm bells go off in his head when Bordeaux ambles up the steps less than an hour later, and he immediately eyes Louis from across the ward. Louis wastes no time in scrambling over to him.

“Deputy Warden wants to see you.”

Louis blinks. “Why?”

Bordeaux shrugs and then looks around for Guibert. He pushes past Louis to have a word with the doctor and Louis can only frown when Guibert’s head pops out from behind a curtain to blink at him. Bordeaux gives a stiff nod and then gestures with a _follow me_ motion to Louis as he passes, and Louis trails him down the stairs feeling sick with fear.

A different guard is waiting for them at the gate; he’s young and he’s got the hard look of a boy eager to prove himself as a man. Louis knows the type well. He waits as Bordeaux and the new guard have a quiet conversation, and then Louis is waved through the gate. The kid leads him to the main courtyard and Louis nearly balks at the sight of the guillotine, gleaming mean in the full light of the afternoon, but he’s able to shakily follow the guard up the stairs and into the hallway past the killing device. He’s lead around a corner and up a small flight of stairs, and then they stop outside of an unmarked doorway. 

The young guard knocks twice and the door swings open immediately. Louis is confronted with Deputy Warden Brioulet’s quiet fury and he takes an involuntary step back at the look on the other man’s face. Brioulet stares him down and dismisses the guard with a curt motion, and the guard shoots Louis a curious look before turning back the way they’d come. 

“Come in,” Brioulet says with a remarkable attempt at nonchalance. 

Louis slips into the office and tries to swallow around his dry, fear-bloated tongue. Brioulet closes the door and circles around his desk to sink into an uncomfortable-looking chair behind it. Louis settles down into an even less comfortable chair when prompted by an impatient gesture.

“Mr. Dega. Thank you for coming.”

It sounds like a cruel joke, one deserving a pithy reply, but with the guillotine still fresh in his mind Louis is smart enough to keep his mouth shut. He inclines his head and keeps his hands relaxed in his lap, though his heart kicks wildly.

“Do you know why I’ve called you in here today?”

“No, sir.”

Brioulet regards him skeptically. He leans forward on the desk on his elbows and steeples his fingers. “We’ve received an interesting letter.”

Louis’ jaw grinds shut around a question. Brioulet makes him wait for what seems like a genuinely unnecessary amount of time before elaborating.

“It seems that your attorney has been successful in petitioning for your release.”

Louis’ mind tingles white.

“You look surprised.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you not anticipate that you would be granted your appeal?” 

“I had hoped, of course, but--”

“Do you think you deserve it?”

Louis’ tongue presses up against the back of his teeth. He knows that there isn’t an answer that will pacify the deputy warden. “I’m certainly grateful.”

“Apparently a witness that spoke out against you recanted. He even admitted to being the mastermind behind the scheme. Said that you weren’t aware that the bonds were forgeries and that he sent you into a set-up to take the fall for him.”

Louis stares at Brioulet’s nose and says nothing.

“How convenient for you.” Brioulet leans back in his chair and looks at Louis like he’s an insect that he’d like to crush beneath his heel. “Even more convenient than you landing a position at the hospital... Strange, that. I specifically remember assigning you to Route Zero.”

“Sir--”

“Apparently our good doctor spoke with the warden himself. Sang your praises, from what I’ve heard. Imagine my surprise.”

Louis’ eyes sink down to the desk.

Brioulet falls quiet. Louis can feel the heavy weight of his gaze and doesn’t dare to lift his head. “You’ve received a full pardon, pending finalization of the paperwork and the warden’s approval.”

Louis sucks in a breath.

“Apparently you’ve kept your nose clean. Officially speaking. But I’ve heard rumors, Mr. Dega. And none of them are pretty.” Brioulet’s voice is low and hard and aimed like a punch. “I’m told that you have another man fight your battles for you. In exchange for what, I wonder?”

Louis wants to melt into the floor, but as humiliating as the conversation is he’s clued into the message behind Brioulet’s hostility: he’s as good as free. 

“Your brother-in-law,” Louis says quietly, but with growing confidence. “He should appeal as well. He didn’t knowingly purchase ill-gotten goods.” He actually _had_ , as a matter of fact, but Louis is reasonably sure that Brioulet isn’t aware of his sister’s husband’s connections to Marseille’s underground. “I’ll write a letter to his attorney, once I’m back in France, if it will help argue his case.”

Silence.

Louis risks a glance up and finds Brioulet regarding him coldly. He wonders if he played the wrong hand and starts to sweat, but he keeps his gaze steady.

“You’re fortunate that it isn’t my decision,” Brioulet tells him.

Louis couldn’t agree more.

“You’d rot here, if it was.” Brioulet’s mouth curls down at the edges. He stands and passes Louis to open the door, and Louis is quick to rise and try to slip out but Brioulet’s hand catches him by the back of the neck. Louis goes perfectly still as Brioulet’s fingers clasp down tight, tight enough that Louis is certain he’ll have marks by morning.

“You think you’re clever, but I know what you are,” Brioulet hisses in his ear. “You’re a snake. You’re a coward and a whore. Don’t think for a moment that it won’t catch up to you.”

Louis stares at the wall and says nothing, and when Brioulet digs his fingers in he thinks of the bite of the guillotine. 

“You’ll get what’s coming to you,” Brioulet promises him, lifting his hand and stepping away as if Louis is something unclean.

Louis slinks down the hall, heart thundering, neck burning, and he’s not surprised to find the guard waiting around the corner. He allows the young man to lead him past the guillotine and back to the infirmary in perfect silence.

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis lays on his side later that night and traces the frown on Papillon’s face with a heavy heart. Papi had taken his hand and listened quietly as Louis recounted his afternoon. He’d started with what he’d learned from Bordeaux about the restaurant and reluctantly moved on to the news of his appeal, and he’d included every ugly moment with Brioulet in order to weave a web of perfect honesty. He raises his gaze to Papi’s anxious eyes and makes his way carefully across the silk, ready to drop the one big lie hidden beside the many smaller truths.

“The day after tomorrow.”

Papi’s grip tightens. He doesn’t say anything.

“One more day,” Louis whispers, using his free hand to stroke a soft path across Papi’s jaw. Papi sucks in a harsh breath and says nothing, but Louis can tell that he believes him. 

In truth, Louis does not know when he’ll be released. It could be tomorrow, though he very much doubts it. It’s certainly possible that it could be the day after that, but it could equally be a week, maybe two, before he’s escorted out. 

Papillon needs to leave first. 

It pains Louis to be deceptive but he doesn’t doubt the decision, not for one moment. He’d thought of Cormier and Castili’s unidentified guard, of a strip of cloth and a ring of dark bruising around Papi’s throat, and lying had come as easily as breathing air.

“We’ll go back to the storage buildings after my shift tomorrow,” Louis says quietly. The light is quickly fading but the lamplights haven’t been turned on yet, and Louis is suddenly grateful that he can’t clearly see Papi’s eyes anymore. “And the next day, on the Route, you’ll run.”

Papillon swallows. Louis rests his hand against the side of Papi’s neck and brushes his thumb along his pulse point. He expects an argument, a furious protest. He had been _prepared_ for a fight, but Papi only looks at him like he’s already lost to him, and his silence is more agonizing than anger could possibly be. The lamps hum to life and Louis finds himself looking into Papi’s wet, perfectly blue eyes with unfortunate clarity. In a moment of weakness, of madness, he nearly folds. _Stay_ , he wants to beg, _or take me with you_ , but he only clenches his jaw and watches Papillon watch him.

Papi’s hand releases his in favor of touching his cheek, his hair, his shoulder, and Louis wonders if Papi’s trying to memorize the feel of him or if he’s trying to convince himself that Louis isn’t already an apparition.

“Papi,” Louis whispers. There’s more to be said after that, but he doesn’t dare speak his thoughts into existence. Not now.

Papillon pulls him in close, folding himself around Louis without saying a word. Louis grips selfishly at his shirt.

✧ ✧ ✧

Henri breaches the surface of the waking world reluctantly, fighting to stay in a dream that disappears from his memory the moment he opens his eyes. It’s still dark. His left arm is numb from Dega’s weight but Henri doesn’t dare shift to relieve the pressure. He squeezes his eyes shut and listens to distant cricketsong and the occasional cry of some night creature prowling beyond the walls of the prison. 

It must be very late or very early.

Henri can feel Dega’s ribcage rising and falling against his arm, can feel the heat pooling in the small space between them and he abruptly finds it hard to breathe. Sweat beads up along his scalp and he grips Dega tighter.

 _Wake up,_ he thinks. _Wake up and tell me you’re not going to leave me alone._

Dega doesn’t stir. He’s too used to Henri’s clinginess by now.

Something screams out in the night and Henri opens his eyes again. It’s dark enough that there’s little difference. He sucks in a quick breath and rests his face against Dega’s hair, and then the ugliest side of him wins out; he squeezes his arms until Dega squirms and then he squeezes some more. He doesn’t let go, not even when Dega shifts and huffs out a sleepy breath against his throat. Henri feels the fairy-light brush of Dega’s eyelashes against his skin and he inhales against Dega’s curls. 

Dega slowly shifts until he can raise one hand to touch his fingertips to Henri’s lips. Henri’s stomach tightens and twists, sick with tenderness when Dega moves to replace his fingers with his mouth. It’s a chaste kiss, slow and simple, and Henri nearly hates him for it. 

_Say something_ , Henri wants to beg, desperate for Dega to give him a reason to pick a fight. But Dega remains stubbornly silent, alternating between pressing his mouth in and whispering his fingers through Henri’s short hair. 

When Dega does speak he does so to quietly offer reassurances-- _it will be alright_ , he says, _I won’t let you down,_ and Henri shudders out a breath but doesn’t argue. _We’ll be together again soon_ , Dega promises after he presses a long kiss into the side of Henri’s mouth. 

Henri swallows down the sudden ache in his throat and finds his voice. “You have to stay alive.”

“Papi--”

“You have to stay alive long enough for me to find you.” His chest hitches as his mind stumbles over the thought of Dega under Castili’s thumb, subject to any whim of a crime lord inclined toward cruelty. He thinks of Dega atoning for Henri’s own carelessness with his life.

“Breathe, Papillon.”

Henri does. He closes his eyes and feels Dega’s gentle hands against his chest and thinks of nothing else until morning.

✧ ✧ ✧

Papillon is slow to wake in the morning, and he grabs Louis’ arm hard the moment that his eyes snap open. Louis stares down at him with surprise and no small amount of concern, but Papi looks around, sucks in a breath, and then rubs his arm apologetically. Louis knows better than to ask if he’s alright--he knows what Papi looks like after a nightmare. He’s found that touching him is a better balm than any words could be, and he leans down to kiss him even though they’re sure to be seen. 

Papi’s eyes are dark and grateful when he pulls back, and Louis goes right on staring at him until their ever-disgruntled turnkey arrives to free them from the concrete. Louis shifts to the edge of the slab and then puts his shoes on, and he watches from the corner of his eye as Papi slowly pulls on his own boots, looking dazed. Louis can only guess at what unhappy dreams had found him in the night, and he gives Papi’s hand a quick pat before standing. He looks around the room to find several hostile pairs of eyes, but they’re averted when Papi climbs to his feet and stretches to his full height.

Louis swallows hard and tries not to think about the night after next--it won’t be his first without Papillon, but the few other times he had been under Caimán’s vengeful protection, as twisted as that had been. Tomorrow night… 

“Ready?”

Louis turns and nods, keeping his face carefully neutral. Papi briefly touches the small of his back before leading them out of the barrack, and Louis spends the rest of his day in a hazy whirlwind of thought. He does his chores and tends to the wounded and smiles at Bordeaux and Guibert, but his thoughts flutter ahead to what will happen after his shift ends. He doesn’t know if anyone has been back to the medical storage building in the last several weeks or not, but he’s not about to take the risk of the door being locked.

He waits until Guibert takes a break and then he steals the key from the desk.

✧ ✧ ✧

“I thought you said it would be unlocked,” Papi mutters, leaning in to invade Louis’ space as the storage door clicks closed. He crowds so close that Louis can feel the heat radiating off of him, can nearly feel the phantom touch of Papi’s stubble against his own cheek. He remembers the feel of it against his thighs and goes a little weak in the knees.

“I had hoped. But I wasn’t going to leave it to chance.” He tucks the key back into his pocket and backs away a step, and Papi follows just a step too close.

“Guibert’s not going to notice?”

Louis shrugs and backs toward the other side of the room; he doesn’t miss the way that Papillon slouches with disappointment at the distance, and he realizes that Papi has misread his intentions. He thinks that Louis has brought him only to collect the necessary few items for their distraction and Louis feels a little giddy at the thought of surprising him. He moves between the shelves and locates what he’s looking for quickly enough, thankfully right where he’d found it last time and still full. He takes the little glass jar in his hands he glances over to find Papi leaning against the desk.

Louis stares, momentarily paralyzed by doubt. 

Papi stares back, squinting at him in the half-light, and he pushes off of the desk and approaches with curiosity. He comes within a breath and reaches out to grip and turn Louis’ wrist.

“What did you find?”

Louis doesn’t say anything, and it takes an effort but he keeps his gaze steady despite his embarrassment. Papi frowns and plucks the brown jar from his hand, and then he sucks in a breath and laughs it out in disbelief when he reads the label. 

“Really?”

Louis doesn’t know what to make of that response. He wonders if he’s being mocked.

“Petroleum jelly can be used for burns,” he says weakly. “Among other things.”

“You don’t have to tell me that, Dega,” Papi laughs again, marveling down at the container.

“If you don’t want to--”

Papi’s head jerks so up quickly that Louis nearly startles a step away. “Don’t be stupid,” Papi warns, and Louis wonders how he manages to make a thing like that sound like a reassurance. Papi’s free hand clasps against the side of his neck and Louis shivers despite the merciless heat of it. Papi squeezes gently. “‘Course I do.”

“Good,” Louis says, sounding more like he’s accepting the terms of a business deal than discussing the possibility of anal sex.

Papi’s hand tightens. “Where?”

“What do you mean? I assume here is--”

“No, _where_ in here?” Papi glances behind him. “Desk’s not exactly all that big. Or all that comfortable.”

“Do I have to do all the work?” Louis jokes, to which Papi laughs and shakes his head.

“Fair enough.” 

He shoves the jar of vaseline back into Louis’ hands and begins prowling the shelves. Louis watches him and tries to get his heartbeat back down to a sensible rhythm. He can’t tell if he’s anxious or excited--but maybe it’s both. He listens to Papillon rustle around in the corner of the room and thinks of Caimán and feels a thrill of fear at the idea of revisiting that pain, of _inviting_ it back. But then Papi passes him with his arms full of clean linens, grinning, and Louis finds that his doubts go quiet and lie still. 

Papillon dumps the sheets on the desk and Louis watches curiously as he goes back to the corner and returns with the canvas tarp that Louis had found on his first visit, back when he was looking for gauze. He stands by as Papi folds the tarp in half and lays it down so that it’s half under the desk, and then bundles the linens on top of that. He turns back to Louis, looking self-satisfied and eager, and Louis can only smile helplessly back.

“Should be comfortable enough,” Papi tells him, advancing a slow step closer as though worried he’s going to spook Louis away with one ill-timed movement. “And the desk’ll give us a second to pull our pants up if someone comes in.”

Louis doubts that that will matter much at that point, but he wanders toward the desk and pretends to admire the arrangement. He rolls the jar in his hands, considering what to say, and then Papi grabs him by the waist and shoves him firmly against the desk. Louis nearly laughs--so much for Papi worrying about scaring him away. He sets the jar down on in favor of having his hands free to wander, but Papi’s eyes shift to the petroleum jelly and then back. The question is obvious-- _I’m fucking you, right?_ \--but he tries to ask it anyway. “You want--”

“Yes. Show me how it’s done,” Louis says, and he's a little too proud at the way it comes out, all soft and seductive. He feels his chest grow tight as Papi pulls him in closer to kiss him.

“Maybe next time, then,” Papi says against his lips and Dega pulls away to look at him in surprise. Papi stares back. “What? You think I wouldn’t let you fuck me?” Louis blinks and Papi looks exasperated, and then he speaks slowly, like Louis is simple. “There isn’t anything I’d do to you that I wouldn’t want you to do for me.”

Louis hesitates, and the he has to fight down a nauseating wave of affection when he realizes that he believes him. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he teases.

Papi makes a noise at that--half laugh, half groan, recognizing the echo of a different conversation--and then Louis’ pressing in and tilting his head up and Papi’s curling in around him again. Louis takes a fistful of his short hair and guides his head for a better angle, and Papi melts into an obedient slouch. It’s nice, _better_ than nice, actually, but there’s a clock ticking down in Louis’ mind. After a few moments he pulls back and offers a regretful smile. 

“We don’t have all night,” he warns, “especially not if we want to shower and eat.” Papi shrugs, but Louis can’t muster the same nonchalance. He’s feeling anxious but he aims for impatient. “Come on, Papi.”

"Are you sure?” 

Louis knows that Papi wouldn’t begrudge him if he pulled away, even after all of this. He doesn't doubt that Papi would take whatever he offered up, even if it was one more kiss and a goodbye, but Louis doesn’t pull away. He nods and allows himself to enjoy the way that Papi’s hands are burning at him through the worn fabric of his shirt. 

“Good.” Papi kisses him so hard that Louis feels the flesh of his lips bruise against his teeth, and he groans all the louder for it, not caring that he sounds like a sloppy drunk. Papi keeps a grip on him and seems more desperate to hold on than before, as if Louis will dissipate the second Papi's hands leave his skin.

Louis breathes in, smelling dust and sunshine and sweat, and threads his fingers through Papillon’s hair, marveling at the color of it in the half-light when he pulls back. He thinks of sunlit woodsmoke, of sea-bleached stones on a shore--a delicate, ashy gold he wants to capture in paint.

“You’re beautiful,” he mutters, as though reluctantly brought to awe.

Papi laughs. His hands wander down the line of Louis’ spine and Louis arches at the warm press of fingertips.

✧ ✧ ✧

Henri can hardly hear Dega’s appreciative little noises over the gruesome pounding of his heart, which feels set to creep up into his throat and suffocate him. He wets his lips and tastes Dega on them. Dega’s watching him calmly, eyes warm, and Henri’s stomach hurts at the sight. He wants to say something, but he can’t come up with the words quickly enough. Dega tilts his head and tugs playfully at the fabric of his shirt. 

“You’re overdressed for the occasion,” he informs Henri.

“Don’t see you making much of an effort to change that.”

Dega’s expression is perfectly poised between exasperated and amused, and Henri helpfully lifts his arms as Dega tugs his shirt up and over his head. Dega drops it carelessly, eyes hungry now, and Henri shoves him back against the desk again, which earns him a laugh and a light shove. He smiles as he strips Dega of his own shirt, and he tosses it halfway across the room just to be an asshole. Dega shakes his head and can’t be bothered to protest--he’s too busy stroking Henri through his pants to care. Henri sucks in a breath, eyes catching on the jar of vaseline.

“What would be more comfortable?” He asks. Dega looks confused, so Henri clarifies and tries not to grin at the other man’s naïveté. “On your back, or on your stomach--?”

“Back,” Dega says sharply. “I want to see your face.”

The sentiment sounds sweet but Henri hadn’t missed the lightning fast strike of fear in Dega’s eyes. Henri understands and wishes with all of his heart that he doesn’t.

“Okay.” He grabs Dega’s wrist so that he can press a kiss into his palm and Dega smiles at the sappiness of it. “Whatever you want.”

Henri makes quick time of getting them both naked and then he gets Dega on the ground. He all but drags Dega partway under the desk and pushes him down against the linen, and for a moment he feels like a child playing a game of hide-and-seek in school. The location definitely isn’t ideal. Fucking someone under an old desk in a prison storage unit is about as far from romantic as it can get, but Henri takes a moment to appreciate that it’s happening at all. Dega had gone out of his way to arrange it, and the thought makes him ill with affection.

He sucks in a breath and finds that Dega’s are eyes unbearably soft. He’s bleeding adoration and Henri feels unworthy. He gazes down, wanting to linger in the moment for as long as possible; he lets his hands wander until Dega shifts impatiently, but Henri can’t be swayed from his tenderness. He brushes his fingertips along the hollow of Dega’s bare belly and watches gooseflesh rise in the aftermath.

“Papi.”

“I know.” Henri pecks a kiss against his jaw and reaches for the vaseline, but he hesitates once he’s got it open in his hand.

“I trust you,” Dega says in the gentlest voice he's ever used with Henri. Henri’s eyes all but glaze over at the sweetness of it.

He’s generous with the petroleum jelly, not caring if they use the entire jar, and Dega takes his first finger with surprising ease. Henri continues to move slowly, carefully, but Dega has the gall to look unimpressed. 

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” he jokes, sounding only a little strained.

“Got to go slow, Dega. You don’t need to pretend to be tough--I know how goddamn delicate you are,” Henri rasps out. He twists his hand for emphasis. 

Dega jerks and makes a soft noise but remains unconvinced. “It’ll take more than this,” he quips breathlessly, “after months of that damn capsule.”

“Been a while since that.”

He hadn’t been cruel enough to ask Dega to carry the money, not after what had happened with Caimán. He’d dealt with it himself until they’d ditched the capsule--they hadn’t needed it once they’d divided the bulk of their funds between Nennete and Le Ver. Their last few francs are instead tucked between the shelf and the wall in the barracks, taking up the space that Clara’s letter had once occupied. But Henri does his best not to think about that, not when he has Dega bright-eyed and eager on his back.

He leans in to drag his wet teeth across Dega’s shoulder and adds another finger. Dega immediately curls up against him and starts breathing harder. They’re both slick with sweat by the time he adds a third, and he strokes Dega from the inside and tries to ignore the way Dega whispers out an appreciate curse and quivers when Henri strokes his cock to make up for the uncomfortable stretch.

“You’re doing good, Dega.” He feels perspiration seeping up along his spine, and he works his fingers feverishly. “You’re doing good.”

Dega's watching him now, his eyes too focused, and he wraps a hand around the back of Henri's neck. 

"Come on," he whispers, and Henri would love nothing more to indulge, but he knows better.

“Not yet.”

He’s careful, and he’s thorough, and he’s burning hot to the touch when he slicks himself up with more vaseline than strictly necessary. He holds his dick in his hand and stares down at Dega, searching his face for any sign of distress or uncertainty, but Dega reaches out for him again and nods. Henri grips his hip with one hand and lines himself up with the other, and he holds his breath as he starts to push. Dega allows Henri to work his way in slowly. His hands find Henri's wrists, his shoulder, then his face; one cards through Henri's too-short hair. Henri knows it doesn’t feel good, not yet, but Dega only grits his teeth until Henri bottoms out and goes still.

Henri pants and mutters sweet things, though neither of them are really paying attention to what he’s saying. His knees hurt from pressing into the concrete, which he can still feel even through the thin linens and the tarp, but he doesn’t mind; it helps to draw him back from the edge while Dega adjusts to a different kind of ache. Henri can sympathize with the uncertainty on Dega’s face--his first was a long time ago but he remembers it well enough; it had been satisfying in the aftermath but the act itself had felt like someone was jabbing his guts with a broomstick handle. He’d been young and inexperienced then, and he wants to utilize every considerable skill he’s picked up in the meantime to make this _good_ for Dega. 

_Especially after--_ Henri bites off the thought. He can’t touch that memory, not now. He pulls in the heavy air and when he grounds himself in the moment he realizes that Dega’s tensing up. He can see the thick thump of his pulse in his neck, can see that his ribcage is too still.

“Don’t hold your breath,” he advises, and Dega huffs out like he’s annoyed at being told what to do, but he listens all the same. Henri keeps a firm grip on Dega’s hip with one hand and allows the other to stray to his hair, weaving in gently. “You’re doing good,” he says again.

Dega swallows hard, restless and unhappy with the pressure. Henri strokes his head, and then Dega bites his lip as though to silence himself. He looks like he wants to ask _’is this it?’_

“It’ll get better,” Henri reassures, “I promise. But we can stop if you want.”

Henri appreciates that Dega takes a moment to consider that, and he’s even more appreciative when Dega decides to trust him. “It’s fine,” he gasps out, “I’m fine. But you’d better be right.”

Henri leans down and grumbles a laugh into his neck. He closes his eyes and presses his lips into the hollow of Dega’s throat, and he can practically taste the vibration when he shifts his hips and Dega rumbles out a sigh. Henri feels a pinch of concern. He’s done a good job with the petroleum jelly and with stretching him, but Dega’s too quiet--but then Henri realizes that he has to be. He takes a moment to wonder if Dega would be mouthy if not for the circumstances. He likes to think that he would be.

“You okay?” he finally decides to ask.

Dega’s jaw is clenched but he nods. 

“Let me know if it’s too much,” Henri pants, to which Dega hums out an affirmative noise.

Henri sets a slow, easy pace, leaning back enough that he can watch Dega’s face for any indication of fear or pain. Aware of the scrutiny, Dega avoids his eyes and chews at his lip, which is already slick and red from the abuse of Henri’s mouth, and he turns and twists once Henri starts to move in earnest. Henri looks down at him, admiring the high flush on his dark cheeks, the way his eyes burn molten in the dim light, and he understands that Dega has ruined him for anyone else.

“Papi,” Dega murmurs, and the adoring sound of it settles straight into Henri’s chest.

He kisses Dega and starts to make good on his promise to make the discomfort worth it.

✧ ✧ ✧

A breathy sound tears itself from somewhere deep inside of Louis and Papi picks up the rhythm, clearly pleased. His sweat drips down onto Louis' skin and burns him with every drop, but Louis welcomes the sting and relaxes into Papi’s movements. The discomfort is still there but it’s a distant concern now, and he ignores it in favor of wondering at the way Papi continually adjusts and watches, like he’s waiting for something.

Papi shifts again as they rock together and Louis jolts. He stares in bewilderment at Papi as the bright tingle of pleasure fades, and Papi smiles down at him in a way that’s nothing short of mischievous. 

_You bastard,_ Louis nearly says, not understanding the sensation but knowing that Papi had been hunting for it, but then Papi moves like _that_ again and he’s helpless against the convulsion. He scrapes his fingertips along the side of the desk, trying to find purchase, and he startles himself with the noise that Papi draws out of him. He’s almost tempted to look around, like the lewd moan had come from someone else, and he abruptly bites his fingers to keep it in the next time Papi finds that place inside of him.

The sound comes out all the same, and Papillon has the nerve to laugh. Louis laughs too, though he’s gasping hard enough at the revelation that it’s little more than a hoarse hiss. 

“You like that?” Papi asks smugly, which Louis finds completely unnecessary. 

He arches, thighs trembling, when Papi puts his hand over his mouth and replaces Louis’ fingers with his own.

“Shit,” Papi complains, mouth still split that arrogant smile, “you’ve got to be quiet.” He presses down on Louis’ tongue and shifts his hips again as he says it, and Louis nearly bites him in retaliation.

“Fuck.”

Louis moans in agreement, gripping hard at Papi’s wrist with one hand and the linens with the other. He doesn’t feel too bad about digging his fingers in, and Papi certainly doesn’t seem to mind.

“You gonna keep quiet?” Papi asks, as if Louis could answer with his fingers between his teeth.

He manages an approximation of a nod, though they both know it isn’t true. Papi pulls his hand away and Louis uses the opportunity to gulp in air and fill his lungs. 

“Bastard,” he finally says, but it happens to sound a lot more like _don’t stop_.

“This okay?”

Louis swallows and marvels at the way that his tongue feels sore, like he’ll have a bruise in the shape of Papi’s fingertips in the morning. “Yes. It’s good.”

That’s a bit of an understatement, actually, but Papillon’s grin is suddenly insufferable and he can’t justify inflating the other man’s ego any more than he has, though he is helpless to smile back when Papi beams. 

“Good.”

Reassured, Papi picks up the pace again and takes Louis’ cock in the hand that isn’t holding him in place by the hip, and Louis arches so violently he nearly hits his head on the floor. 

He abruptly doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

“Papi,” he stutters out, then forgets what he was going to say when Papillon shifts and presses against him like he means to crush Louis down until there’s no dividing line between where he ends and Louis begins.

Louis sighs under his weight, appreciative of the contact, and his fingers find a happy home on Papillon’s back. He squirms and scratches as Papi pants into his neck, and then there’s nothing but movement and heat. He curls on his back when he comes, writhing his way through the star-hot pleasure of it, and he falls back down into himself with his lungs burning and his fingertips tingling. 

Papi’s movements slow and he makes as though to draw back, but Louis has the presence of mind to grip at him and keep him in place. 

“It’s okay,” he rasps out, throat raw, and Papi shifts until he can look down at him.

Louis hums an encouraging noise and tries not to shiver when Papillon starts moving again. Louis stares up at him and doesn’t mind the rapidly returning discomfort, especially not when Papi’s free hand finds his. Louis allows him to entwine their fingers and chase his own pleasure and thinks of nothing except the look on Papi’s face. He wraps his other hand around the back of Papi’s head when he loses his rhythm and bends low, shuddering, before going still. Louis holds him and fixes his gaze up at the underside of the desk, trying to steady the heaving in his chest until Papi makes a soft noise, squeezing tight at his hand and hip. Louis experiences a strange assortment of sensations when he pulls out. 

He abruptly feels exhausted. He can barely keep his eyes open as Papi takes a fistful of linen in an attempt to clean the worst of the mess. Louis distantly thinks he should help, but by the time he resolves himself to it Papi presses their mouths together and collapses back on top of him. The heat is otherworldly, something he’s sure will burn them both, but in that moment he thinks that he would be alright with that.

His eyes close without permission and he listens as their desperate panting begins to even out. The evening begins to creep in at the edges and he takes notice of the ever-present lullaby of insects again. It’s peaceful in a way it’s never been before. 

“You okay?”

Louis struggles to open his eyes. It takes an effort but he pulls Papi in for a bruising kiss and lets that suffice as his answer. Papi grins against his mouth and then Louis allows his head to drop back down. Time slips, silky and elusive, and the room seems a little darker when he thinks to open his eyes again. He turns his head to find Papi pressing a kiss against his shoulder and he feels a twist of appreciation in his belly. Papi meets his gaze and smiles, and the sight lingers like an afterburn of light behind his eyelids.

Papi abruptly groans and rolls onto his side. Louis hates to admit it, but the heat he takes with him is a welcome loss. It’s too damn hot. His resentment of French Guiana--of the sun and the jungle and all it’s singing insects--it comes back full force. He reaches out and is only vaguely embarrassed at how wobbly his arm feels, but it’s worth it to entwine his hand with Papi’s again. This much warmth he can tolerate. Papi’s mouth curls and Louis finds that he enjoys the sight of Papillon debauched--he's pink with satisfaction and there's a no shortage of smugness in the way he smiles at Louis, radiant and triumphant in the way he is after a fight. But there’s a gentleness there too, something unexpected. Papi’s never been deliberately cruel to him, and Louis has known his tenderness for weeks, but now Papi looks at him as though he’s something heaven-sent. 

It makes his eyes sting. 

He closes them and shifts onto his side to bury his face into the hollow of Papi’s neck, and he drifts again, feeling overheated and filthy and satisfied, but before long the itch of anxiety creep back up his spine. He reluctantly sighs against Papi’s salt-sweet skin.

“We’ll miss dinner,” he mumbles.

Papillon tightens his grip and doesn’t reply. 

“You need to eat. Papi, you need to eat as much as you can before you go--”

“I know.”

He’s trying to be harsh, trying to get Louis to shut up, but he doesn’t even come close. Louis smiles knowingly, but his hands begin to tremble with grief. “We need to get up.”

“Not yet.”

Louis allows the indulgence.

When Papillon finally releases him, he sits up and has to stretch out before he can manage to stand, and even then his legs feel weak and coltish. He’s not in pain but he is sore and it tempers his movements as he collects his shirt and pants. He feels faintly embarrassed when he catches Papi staring. Egotistical joy creeps back into Papi’s face, like he can’t be bothered to be sympathetic about the ache he put in Louis. 

Louis smiles begrudgingly, and then he wipes himself properly and dresses.

Papi pulls his own clothes on slowly and Louis doesn’t miss the way that his eyes linger on the rumbled linens under the desk, looking dazed, as though the last hour was a good dream sure to vanish. A bead of sweat trickles down the side of his neck and Louis feels bold enough to move into the space behind him; he folds his hands over Papi’s hips and kisses it away. He feels Papi stiffen in surprise, hears him take a shaky breath in, and when Papi angles his head to glance back Louis finds his eyes polished bright with despair. He feels gutted with the knowledge that he put that pain in Papillon’s face, and so he closes his eyes and rests his forehead against Papi’s shoulder.

“I can’t lose you, either.” It sounds entirely too needy but it’s important to him that Papi knows, and he’s willing to embarrass himself to have it heard.

“I know.” Papi sounds wounded, and Louis lifts his head to watch as he blinks wetness from his eyes and stares at the wall, looking for all the world like the sun will never rise on another day. Louis realizes that maybe it won't, after tomorrow.

Would he ever know if Papi died in the bush? If he became lost, if Celier turned on him, if he was recaptured and thrown in Île Saint-Joseph? He feels the tremor return in his fingers and then wonders the opposite--if he was killed by a quick knife in the darkness of the barracks, if he was beaten to death and left in a dirty alleyway in Paris--would Papillon ever know to give up? He thinks of Papi’s vow to find him and he tries to turn away, abruptly overcome at the thought of that endless, ugly search, but Papi catches his chin between sure fingers and stops him with a quiet murmur of, "Louis."

Louis falls apart at the sound of his name, at the way the syllables roll with something like reverence from Papi’s tongue. He jerks and takes off his glasses to rub viciously at his eyes, but he doesn’t fight when Papi pulls his fingers away and leans in close to cup his face with his own hands. His thumbs brush Louis’ cheekbones.

“It’s going to be okay,” Papi whispers.

Louis grits his teeth. Papillon wraps his arms around him, squeezing harshly, and Louis surrenders all too easily into the embrace.

“We’re going to be okay,” Papi promises.

Louis makes himself believe it.


	15. Quinze

Locked down for the night, Dega doesn’t waste his breath trying to tell Henri to shut his eyes and go to sleep, though he clearly wants to. Henri watches him as he tries to get comfortable despite the ankle cuffs, head propped up on his arm, and appreciates that Dega knows not to bother. Henri doesn’t say the things on his mind either, because they would both rather play make-believe with what little time they have left. 

There’s no sense in wallowing in uncertainty--Henri decides to torment Dega with questions instead.

“How do you feel about dogs?”

It’s the fourth in a line of inquiries deliberately chosen to annoy Dega into huffing and jumping in to the conversation before Henri can get too far into any particular fantasy. 

“Dogs are fine. By which I mean, _a_ dog is fine,” Dega hedges, like he thinks he’s caught on to the game but is wary enough play it safe and answer honestly, rather than wind up with a house full of mutts. “Singular.” 

“Got to have at least two. To keep each other company.”

“No--”

“Unless you’d rather go back to talking about cats--”

“No cats.”

“C’mon, Dega, they’re not so bad.”

“They are. They get into everything,” Dega groans, propping himself up on an elbow to mirror Henri. “They can’t be kept from shelves and countertops. And they’re spiteful creatures.”

Henri laughs, earning a grumble of protest from a tired convict across the barrack. 

“I’m being very serious. Clara insisted on one soon after we were married,” Dega shares. Henri has to ignore the tight pinch in his chest at the mention of her. “She spoiled it terribly, and in return it urinated on our linens.”

Henri snorts. 

“Frequently.”

“Sounds like a real hardship,” Henri says with mock sympathy. “What happened to it?”

“Clara gifted it to a friend after a few weeks.” Dega shrugs one shoulder, eyes drooping sleepily. “It was an expensive breed, and it was well received. We never heard anything else about it.”

“So, no cats.”

“No cats.”

“Two dogs it is, then.”

Dega shoves playfully at his shoulder, and Henri catches his hand afterward. Dega’s amusement softens into something else, something Henri doesn’t quite have a name for. “We’ll see. I’m not agreeing to anything.”

Henri hums, teasingly noncommittal, and then peppers Dega with mumbled nonsense-- _we’ll paint the front door red_ , and _we’ll build a bench for the garden_ , and _you should really reconsider the chickens because having fresh eggs is worth it_. Dega listens, interjecting only to protest particularly ridiculous ideas, and his eyes grow glassy with exhaustion as the night wears on. He’s slumping against his hand, head lolling down, by the time Henri runs out of suggestions for the home that Dega only half-believes that they’ll have some day. Henri squeezes his hand, which earns him a soft noise and a smile.

“Lie down,” Henri suggests. “You’ll be more comfortable.”

Dega opens his eyes just to roll them, and Henri watches as his glasses catch the moonlight and flash. “I’m awake.”

“It’s late.”

“I know.”

“Then sleep.”

Dega squints at him, unimpressed. “You’re the one who is going to be running through the jungle tomorrow,” he mumbles under his breath, and he says it lightly but Henri’s stomach still drops at the unpleasant reminder. 

“Yeah. And you’ll be under Castili’s heel by the end of the night.”

Dega licks his lips, stalling, and pulls his hand free so that he can raise it to touch Henri’s jaw. His fingertips run along the barely-there stubble. “I can handle Castili. Just like you can handle a romp through the bush.”

“Don’t get cocky, Dega.”

“I’m not,” Dega protests, and he speaks with a quiet confidence that Henri manages to take some comfort in. “I know that he’s dangerous. I promise you, I won’t give him a reason to hurt me.”

Dega and his promises. 

“Two months,” Henri reminds him, though the words taste sour in his mouth. They’d budgeted eight weeks apart, though Dega had asked for ten. Eight weeks--long enough for Henri to be presumed dead, long enough for Dega to get his money. “That’s it.”

“I know.” Dega finds his hand again and holds it tight when Henri can’t manage to look convinced. “I’m not going to give you an excuse to come looking for me,” he says quietly. “I won’t let you step foot back in Paris, not as long as Castili is alive.”

Henri knows that, and it hurts to think he’ll probably never see the city again but he understands the stakes. He just needs Dega to understand that he’ll risk Castili’s wrath if he needs to. “Then you’d better get your ass to Lille on time.”

“I’ll be there by New Years, as planned.”

“Good,” Henri grumbles. He considers running over the details again, just to make sure Dega knows exactly where to go from the train station, but they’ve already been over it half a dozen times in the last few days and he’s reasonably certain that Dega won’t appreciate being quizzed on it again.

“We really should try to sleep,” Dega mutters, but he makes no effort to lie flat and he doesn’t seem at all surprised when Henri doesn’t, either. 

Henri couldn’t sleep if he wanted to. He needs the time to think, to try to find a way to change Dega’s mind before dawn, because despite their facade of nonchalance he can’t stomach the idea of saying goodbye once the sun rises. 

_There has to be something,_ he thinks, _some other way._

He pours over the details for hours and can’t come up with a single new solution.

Dega drifts off and startles awake more than once, and Henri eventually grunts and pulls him close to force him to lie down before he smacks his face on the concrete and breaks his glasses. Dega settles in against him, clingy despite the heat, and Henri slips a hand under his shirt to stroke at his spine. Dega makes an appreciative noise and sighs, and it takes longer than Henri had expected but Dega eventually melts limply against him in sleep. 

It’s nearly morning by the time that Henri reluctantly closes his eyes, and he wakes what feels like minutes later to find Dega staring up at him in the half-light.

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis shifts closer to Papillon as soon as he’s released from the ankle cuffs. He slips his hand into his pocket and fingers the cylinder of cloth hidden there until it’s tucked discreetly into his palm. It feels small in his hand, almost inconsequential, but rolled inside of the stolen napkin are his last few crumpled francs. 

It’s not much but it is enough for a plane ticket to Europe and a few small bribes, if needed. He presses the little bundle into Papi’s hand and he’s pleased when Papi takes the money without complaint, just as he’d agreed to, but Louis’ smile fades as he meets Papi’s solemn gaze. He seems lost as he moves to the edge of the block and Louis bites down a nauseating wave of anxiety. He swallows hard and then he reaches out to lay a hand gently over Papi’s. 

“You said it yourself,” Louis reminds him, “it’s going to be okay.”

Papi simply nods and turns to pull his boots on, but when he breathes in Louis doesn’t miss the wet noise he makes in the back of his throat. Louis stares at the side of his face.

“This isn’t the end,” he says softly.

“Just…” Papi flounders, looking disoriented. “Just stay alive. No matter what it takes.”

“I will. You know that I will.”

Papi nods and turns his face away again, and then there’s nothing left to say. They stand, and Louis’ mind reels as Papi walks him to the infirmary for the last time. He desperately casts out for reasons to delay their plan, because he needs more _time_ , but he keeps his mouth shut and his eyes on the ground, afraid that if he sees Papi’s face he’ll fall apart. But then Papi begins to turn away and Louis panics. He grabs Papi’s sleeve to hold him in place and he stares up with his heart pounding a monstrous beat in his throat. Papi looks at him, eyes flat as though he’s retreated somewhere inside of himself, and in a moment of recklessness Louis leans in to press his lips against the corner of Papi’s mouth. Papi startles and grabs at him when he makes to pull back. Louis is certain that he’s going to say something but Papi only squeezes his arm and lets go. Bordeaux hoots out a laugh of surprise at the display of affection from behind the gate, but he’s diligently ignored.

“This isn’t goodbye,” Louis murmurs.

Papi gazes at him, dazed, and says nothing. Louis sucks in a steadying breath and nods to himself and retreats one painful step back. Papillon lingers for another long moment before turning and walking away.

Bordeaux chortles somewhere behind Louis, but he continues to ignore the guard in favor of watching as Papi hesitates and looks back, just once, before disappearing from his sight. Louis hisses out the breath he’d been holding in and deflates. He folds in on himself as he turns and avoids Bordeaux’s gleeful, curious gaze, and then he ducks through the gate and climbs the infirmary stairs with the grim resignation of a man approaching his own execution.

✧ ✧ ✧

“We go today.”

Celier’s face whips toward him, eyes wide, and Henri shoots him a warning glance before pushing away from the cart. Celier follows him back to the newest in a seemingly endless pile of rocks. 

“When?”

“On our last break,” Henri mutters, “we’ll meet up in the bush behind the track.”

“Why not lunch? We’d have longer to run before they notice we’re gone.” 

“Don’t know that for sure. Besides, better to wait until the end of the day. The guards’ll be more worn out.”

“And then what?”

“I’ve got some stuff to make a diversion. We set it up and then we run.”

Celier frowns and processes the information in silence. Henri heaves up an armful of rocks and starts back toward the cart, and he’s not surprised that Celier’s on board with the plan by the time he catches up. 

“And what about that boyfriend of yours?”

“He’s staying.”

Celier’s eyebrows climb high on his forehead. Henri’s throat is tight when he swallows and shrugs. 

“He’s got his own thing lined up.”

“Really.”

“He didn’t want to slow us down,” Henri admits, and although Dega had never said it out loud Henri knows without a doubt that it played a big factor in Dega’s decision. 

“Huh.” 

“After we set up the diversion, we’ll go through the bush. There’s a road to the south of the prison.”

Celier’s brow furrows. “What about the river?”

“Forget the river. There’s a restaurant not far from here. A friend has a contact there that will help us.”

“A friend?” Celier repeats, incredulous. “Papi--”

Henri hadn’t thought this part through, but the lie comes easily enough. “I sent a message through Dega’s lawyer. You remember the inmate that escaped a few months back?”

Celier shrugs. 

“His name’s Julot. He’s a friend. He’s going to set us up with clothes and a place to stay.”

Celier stares him down, waiting for a tell or a sign of deception, but Henri only stares back with cool confidence. Satisfied, Celier pats him on the shoulder and smiles, and then wanders back to the rock pile without another word. Henri follows at a slower pace with his heart squeezing hard in his chest. Now that he’s said it, now that he’s told Celier, there’s no going back. He carries on working and tries to keep his mind carefully blank, but his breath comes in short and his eyes sting every time that thoughts of Dega creep in at the edges. He pushes through as best he can, and by the time they sit down and receive their bread for lunch he’s thinking only of a property in a distant country, of a warm bed and quiet, lazy mornings. 

He works until the sun begins to droop low toward the horizon. When they’re dismissed for final break of the day he edges across the unfinished track and leans into the shade of a wilting tree. Celier joins him, picking casually at his teeth.

Henri scans the crowd of exhausted inmates and irritable guards and once he’s certain no one’s watching he takes a deep breath, and then he meets Celier’s eye and nods. Celier turns and wanders into the trees, tugging at his pants like he needs to sell the illusion of taking a piss, and Henri follows after another minute. He finds Celier not far in to the treeline and they stand in the shadows and wait. No one shouts and no one comes running after them. Henri’s hands begin to tremble. 

_I can’t,_ he thinks. 

_You have to,_ another part of him says, a part that speaks in Dega’s dry voice. 

Henri heaves a steadying breath into his lungs and then he leads Celier further down the track through the trees, back to the section they’d completed a few days ago. Celier keeps close, eyes sharp and eager, and he stares in surprise when Henri pulls out his cigarette carton and shakes a small glass vial and a square of gauze into his hand. He expects Celier to ask, but Celier simply crouches beside him and watches as Henri’s unsteady hands lay out the gauze and the tube appropriated for isopropyl. 

“Get some leaves, dry as you can find,” Henri instructs hoarsely.

Celier complies without complaint. 

Henri uncaps the vial and soaks half of the gauze in isopropyl alcohol, and then gestures for Celier to follow with his armful of leaves. Henri creeps out of the brush and glances around, hoping that they’re too far and too well hidden behind the track for anyone to notice them. Celier arranges the dry leaves around the base of a beam without having to be told, and Henri quickly tips out the rest of the isopropyl on the pile. 

Henri hesitates, thinking of Dega, but he licks his lips and takes out the box of matches. He strikes one and presses the tiny flame to the corner of the gauze, and then he drops it onto the pile of debris. He drags Celier back into the undergrowth, and they wait for only long enough to watch the leaves catch fire. 

Henri turns on his heel and runs.

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis has been keeping an eye on the window facing the Route all day. He’s distracted and apathetic and knows that Guibert is annoyed with him, but he can’t bring himself to care. He’s rewarded for his unhappy vigilance in the late afternoon, and his heart clenches in his chest when he spots the first dark wisp of smoke rise up from beyond the trees. 

He staggers closer to the window and watches as the barely-there dark blot grows into a plume. 

He can’t catch his breath. He abruptly feels carved out from the inside, like the scar on his stomach has split open and he’s spilling out onto the floor. 

Papillon has set the fire. 

This is what Louis wanted. This is what he’s been waiting for. But maybe the worst side of him, the most cowardly part, maybe it had wanted Papi to change his mind and come back after all. 

Louis breathes out and stares at the horizon, gripping a hand tight on the metal bar of the window as he watches the smoke rise and darken. _Run,_ he thinks, and then he chants it in his head. _Run, run, run--_

Guibert appears at his elbow and says something, but Louis ignores him. He watches as a guard takes notice of the ominous plume. Then there’s a flurry of action--guards pace and shout and to Louis they look like angry insects, milling about in panic. He tells himself that it’s funny and he’s very careful in not thinking about the fact that these particular pests are armed with rifles.

“Louis,” Guibert says loudly. 

Louis keeps his eyes on the smoke and ignores Guibert’s hardening stare. He tightens his grip on the bar until his hand hurts, and then he smiles.

✧ ✧ ✧

Celier’s laughing. Henri’s heaving and sweating and bent double trying not to throw up on his boots. How could he leave Dega? How could he--?

“Need to keep moving,” Celier gasps, slapping Henri on the back.

Henri stares down at the rotten leaves beneath his feet, feeling dizzy. _I need to go back,_ he nearly says, but he grinds his jaw and nods, straightening. Celier makes a happy noise and leads the way, shoving aside leaves wider than Henri’s head and smacking insects away from his face. Henri gulps in air and tries to talk himself out of turning around before it’s too late.

 _It’s already too late. You won’t be any good to him in solitary,_ he reminds himself, but still he pauses to stare over his shoulder into the green gloom. Something cries out from a distance, but Henri can’t tell if it’s a bird or the shrill scream of a guard’s whistle. He shudders and follows after Celier, trying to ward off his regrets as the shadows deepen and the mosquitoes begin to bite harder. 

He trots as quickly as the treacherous terrain will allow, stumbling along behind Celier as the afternoon slips toward nightfall, and he’s exhausted enough that he smacks into Celier’s back when the other man stops. 

“Shit,” he mutters, looking over Celier’s shoulder at the dark streak of water cutting clear across their path. It’s not a river but it’s deep enough that they’ll probably have to swim.

“Come on,” Celier grunts, slipping down over wet growths and mud onto the bank. “No choice, Papi, we have to go across.”

Henri follows and curses when his foot catches on some traitorous root and he winds up chest-deep in the water. Celier turns and shakes his head, teeth glinting white in the near-dark. 

“Hurry up!”

Henri grumbles and wades across the creek, gagging on the stench of plant rot, and he pulls himself up onto the far bank by the slimy trunk of an old tree. He crouches and tries to wipe his palms on the wide face of a leaf, feeling sticky with sweat and muck, as Celier braces his hands on his knees and pants. Henri takes a moment to catch his breath and look up. What little he can see of the sky is awash with a violent sunset and he stares, mesmerized in his exhaustion by the gash of orange framed within the black fingertips of the canopy. He’s out. He’s free. He’s nearly lost in the surreality of the moment. 

Celier follows his gaze and tuts. “We can’t stop for the night.”

“I know, but we have to wait. We’ve got to keep going southwest. We can’t wander off too far. Won’t be possible to keep our bearings in a place like this without the stars.”

“Let’s hope you picked a clear night, then,” Celier laughs, straightening and scrubbing his hands over his head. “Come on, Papi. Get up. Let’s go. It’s not dark yet.”

Henri doesn’t protest, though his muscles certainly do when he stands and starts trampling through the underbrush again. No sleep, a day’s worth of labor, and an evening’s worth of sprinting through an unforgiving, unfamiliar landscape. He thinks of Dega and understands that the other man hadn’t been wrong--he would have slowed them down. 

_But it would’ve been worth it to have him here,_ he admits to himself, slapping his hand against his neck when some hateful insect bites. He fights down a fresh wave of grief and risks another glance up at the sky as he trails after Celier.

He thinks of a plane and allows himself to picture Dega on his way to Paris.

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis isn’t hungry but he makes quick work of his evening meal. Guibert had dismissed him early, with a strongly-worded reproach and instructions to come back in the morning with a better attitude. Louis knows that he should care that Guibert is upset with him, but he can’t bring himself to think of anything except for Papillon. 

He’d immediately gone to the cafeteria after the infirmary and had been among the first to eat, anxious to get in and out before most of the men finished showering after the Route. He decides to ditch what he has left as the cafeteria begins to fill up because he knows that a few more bites of rice isn’t worth getting caught in an alleyway on his way to the barracks.

The worst of his enemies are gone but there are still plenty left to make.

He doesn’t doubt that all of the men on the Route know what happened--that Papillon and Celier had run, that Louis has been left behind. He keeps his eyes on the ground as he walks briskly to the barracks, and he can only stare helplessly when their turnkey regards him with surprise. He watches as the turnkey’s flick eyes behind him, clearly expecting Papi to come sauntering in in his wake, and Louis retreats to the far side of the room. He can’t stand the thought of witnessing the pity that surely creeps into the man’s face once the obvious conclusion is drawn.

He’s alone. Everyone will know it soon enough. He’s fair game now and he doesn’t doubt that there are any less than half a dozen men that Papi had beaten senseless that are eager for retribution in one form or another.

 _I have to fight,_ he thinks, and wonders why it sounds like a joke.

He sits with his back to the corner and watches as darkness creeps down along the walls. Men file in and stare curiously at him and he expects someone to take advantage and make a move, but there’s enough uncertainty about the rumors of Papi’s escape that no one dares to approach.

✧ ✧ ✧

Henri startles awake in the night with the echo of his own name ringing in his ears. He looks for Dega, blood roaring as he tries to search the pitch blackness around him, and he nearly cries out for him before the realization hits. He shudders and lies back down against the damp leaves, ignoring the sensation of tiny things crawling across his skin, and he tries to get his breathing back under control. He’s in the bush and Dega’s in Paris, or well on his way to it. 

Henri closes his eyes again but doesn’t sleep, and he rises without complaint when Celier stirs a while later and taps him on the arm. 

“It’s dark enough now. Let’s go,” Celier grunts.

Henri scratches at an itch on the side of his neck and follows as Celier makes good use of the map of over-bright stars, though it’s slow going. Every step has to be felt out, and Celier sometimes takes them in circles before he can get a good glimpse of the sky. It makes Henri wonder if they aren’t better off waiting until morning but he doesn’t suggest stopping. Every step forward is a step toward the road, toward freedom, toward Dega, and he can’t afford to waste the empty hours of the night.

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis wakes up alone in the morning. His eyes ache from the moment that he opens them, raw from hours of laying awake and staring up at the ceiling, and he turns to frown at the empty space beside him. In a moment of realization he swaps the blankets and tucks what used to be Papi’s into his corner. He doesn’t doubt that the spare will be taken soon enough, and it’s silly and juvenile but he wants the one that will smell more like Papi.

He lies against the scratchy fabric and waits until they’re released, but he doesn’t go to breakfast. He lingers in the barracks and forces conversation on the exasperated turnkey whose name he never bothered to learn. He knows that the turnkey won’t protect him, but he hopes that loitering by a semblance of an authority figure will deter the other men from approaching. To his immense surprise, it works well enough. He doesn’t miss the anticipation in their eyes but no one touches him or snarls obscenities in his direction as they pass. 

The turnkey finally gets fed up and leaves him standing helplessly in the middle of the barracks. He wanders back to his corner and waits until the men assigned to Route Zero have been marched out before he heads for the hospital, which makes him more than a little late for his shift. Bordeaux looks him up and down when he arrives. 

“Boyfriend keep you up all night?” Bordeaux quips with undisguised contempt as he unlocks and pulls open the gate.

Louis gives him a wounded look, but it slides off of Bordeaux like water from a duck’s back. The guard shrugs and shakes his head, eyes cruel with amusement, and Louis could easily hate him in that moment. He keeps his chin up as he walks through the gate and ascends the stairs, determined to carry on with his day as though nothing has changed, but Guibert’s face twists into a sour expression the moment he hits the landing. Louis’ stomach sinks as Guibert approaches and pulls roughly him aside by the arm. 

“What is it?” Louis asks, and he’s pleased that he can manage to sound so unaffected by the betrayed look on the doctor’s face.

“A fire was set on the work route yesterday. Several men fled in the chaos, and your friend was among them.”

Louis blinks slowly.

Guibert’s expression darkens. “You were acting strange all day yesterday,” he points out, his voice quiet but hard. “You were behaving as if you were waiting for something. You were looking out the windows all afternoon.” Guibert rubs at his jaw, looking frazzled. “You knew. You saw the smoke before the guards did. You knew to look for it.”

Louis doesn’t offer a word in his defense. Guibert stares him down and seems to grow more agitated with each passing moment.

“You took the key,” Guibert accuses. Louis is proud that he doesn’t flinch in surprise. “Don’t bother to deny it, I saw you put it back yesterday. Is that how they started the fire? With materials from the medical storage facility? What did you take?” 

Louis stares at the doctor’s left ear and says nothing. 

“I know that you helped him,” Guibert tells him, pacing a step away just to pace back and jab a finger in his direction. “You abused my trust in you. And what did it get you, Louis? He left you behind.”

Louis studies an uninteresting stain on Guibert’s shirt and pretends to be bored with the conversation.

Guibert stares, eyes wide with a new understanding at the impressive display of apathy. “You didn’t intend to go with him. Why?”

“He didn’t kill anyone. It was the right thing to do,” Louis says after a moment, hedging around the heart of the question. Guibert gawps at him, but he’s not thrown by the doctor’s reaction. He know it must seem outrageous, insane even, to risk everything for another man’s escape.

“It wasn’t just him. The guards didn’t have an exact count as of last night, but at least five men are missing.” Guibert is angry. Angrier than Louis has ever seen him, but he’s also exhausted--Louis can read it in every line in his face, in every stilted motion. He watches as Guibert resumes pacing in the small space before him. “I should tell the warden what you’ve done.”

Louis inclines his head and stares at the wall behind the doctor and tells himself not to be afraid. It’s nothing less than he expected.

“You stole supplies, Louis. Supplies that were used to damage the roadwork that the warden has been tasked with completing. You aided potentially dangerous convicts in _escaping_.” 

“I know what I’ve done. I’ll accept the consequences.”

Guibert’s eyes are sharp with disappointment. Louis reluctantly meets his gaze and lets his declaration linger like a shot fired between them. He understands the stakes better than Guibert--he knows that his appeal is contingent on the warden’s approval, and that would no doubt be influenced by Louis’ transgressions. He also knows that Castili will have him killed, slowly, if he doesn’t make it back to Paris as expended. 

He thinks of Papi far away from this hellhole and doesn’t doubt that it’s worth it.

Guibert exhales loudly through his nose. “I won’t tell the warden,” he says after a moment, “I don’t know what he would do to you for this. But I can no longer trust you. You are no longer permitted here unless you have a legitimate injury or illness.”

Louis nods. He keeps his face carefully neutral, though his chest tightens at the obvious loathing in Guibert’s voice. 

“Get out.”

Louis nods again and only holds Guibert’s sullen gaze for one defiant moment before turning the corner and descending the staircase again. Bordeaux looks up from setting up his card game and frowns as Louis passes him. 

Louis slips down the exterior stairs and approaches the gate, and then he stands with his shoulders straight and stares out into the courtyard as Bordeaux slowly makes his way over.

“You need an escort somewhere?” Bordeaux asks with obvious confusion.

“No.”

Bordeaux’s eyes burn against the side of his face but Louis can’t bring himself to turn his head, afraid of what he’ll see in the guard’s expression. Bordeaux makes him wait another few moments, but then he surrenders his curiosity, shrugs, and opens the gate. Louis slips through and murmurs a cheerless, “thank you,” as he passes.

He feels eyes on his back until he turns the corner and finds privacy between the buildings, and then he crumples against the wall and takes his glasses off so that he can harshly rub his face. He takes a few minutes to gather himself, and he feels calm and empty by the time he perches his glasses back on his nose. 

He glances around and flexes his hands.

 _What now?_ he wonders, not knowing what to do with himself. It’s not even mid-morning. He’s not an infirmary staffer anymore but the men are already on their way to the Route, and he’s not about to go ask for an escort down for a day of hard labor. 

He stares down at his boots and tries to think but no obvious answer comes to mind.

The only thing that he does know is that he’s exhausted--he feels burned hollow from two restless nights and the agony of knowing that he’s on his own now. He thinks it over, and then makes his way to the barracks, and there’s no one there to stop him from curling up in his corner, pressing his face into Papi’s blanket, and falling asleep.

✧ ✧ ✧

_Dega was right,_ Henri thinks, swiping sweat out of his eyes and ignoring the sting of nettles as he follows Celier through the bush. He’s so fucking thirsty. Dehydration--Dega had warned him about it, had anticipated how hard it might be to come by clean water. Henri smiles ruefully at Celier’s back because he’d been worried about getting shot, but Dega had been right. They can’t trust the murky creeks they trample through, not even the ones that don’t smell foul with decay, and they don’t know the wild assortment of plants well enough to risk pressing their mouths against them to collect the condensation there. _Better to be thirsty than shitting your pants,_ Celier had advised, and Henri could hardly argue with that. The logic of it doesn’t make his thirst any less all-consuming, though. His want for water makes everything ache but the way it makes his head pound is downright evil, and he finds the endless scream of birds and bugs and unknown, hideous things nearly as oppressive as the heat.

“Fuck,” he rasps out. 

Celier pauses to look over his shoulder and click his tongue in disappointment. He’s filthy but trying to pull off unaffected, and the older man is putting on a good show but Henri knows he’s hurting, too. 

“Don’t quit on me now, Papi.”

“I’m not.”

Celier’s dirty face creases in a smile. “We’ll hit that road soon enough,” he promises, like he has any idea what he’s talking about. He hadn’t even known about the damn road until yesterday.

Henri’s not impressed by his optimism but he makes an agreeable sound in the back of his throat, ready to keep going, but Celier turns and clasps a damp hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

“Bet you’re glad your bitch sat this one out, eh, Papi?”

Henri shoves him off, disoriented by the offhand cruelty. “Fuck you.”

Celier laughs and holds his hands up, like Henri’s the one taking things too far. “Easy. Just a joke. Jesus, Papi.”

Henri’s too damn hot and too damn tired and too damn thirsty to argue. He shoves past Celier and pushes through the shivering green creepers, teeth clenched tight. But Celier’s not done.

“You need to loosen up,” he calls after Henri, and then begins to follow at a distance beyond Henri’s reach.

Henri snaps carelessly through reedy saplings, annoyed at the useless little things starving for light in the gloom of the forest floor, and doesn’t feel even a little bit bad for the destruction. _Damn the jungle,_ he thinks viciously. _Damn French Guiana, damn this whole fucking place._

Celier heaves a theatrical sigh at the display. “C’mon, Papi--”

“What?” Henri demands, whipping around on his heel and nearly slipping on the moist leaves. “What the _fuck_ is your problem?”

Celier has the nerve to look confused but Henri’s not fooled this time. He’s come to recognize the deceptive face of feigned ignorance on the other man too well. He takes a step closer, hands curled into fists.

“What the fuck is it with you?” he asks, throat tight with thirst and anger.

“I’m only pulling your leg, Papi--”

“Bullshit,” Henri pants. “You bringing this shit up again now--What’s it to you? What the fuck do you even care about Dega anymore? You got what you wanted.”

Celier regards him quietly. His eyes are still, but Henri abruptly understands that there’s something dangerous in the placid blue of his gaze. 

“Don’t be so sensitive, Papi.”

Henri doesn’t blink. “Don’t talk about him like that.”

Celier’s brow lunges up. Sweat drips into his eyes but he ignores it in favor of smiling unpleasantly at Henri. “Shit!” he whistles, “you really did fuck him, didn’t you? Must have been good to have you so twisted up.” Celier grabs at himself in an obscene gesture and Henri bristles at the open mockery.

“You fucking asshole. You just can’t stop, can you?”

“You’re the one that needs to cut the shit, Papi. Let it go. Your boyfriend’s back there, probably already cozying up to someone else. He won’t be missing you for long--”

“Fuck you,” Henri spits again. He’s sticky and angry but he’s quickly losing steam, and Celier’s comment misses its mark--Henri knows that Dega’s already out. He sways for a moment, but he doesn’t surrender to the overwhelming desire to sit down. “We need to keep moving.” 

Celier shrugs, unconcerned, but he doesn’t argue the point. “Whatever you say.”

Henri narrows his eyes. “Just keep your goddamn mouth shut about Dega.”

Celier says nothing. His eyes look small and dark in the smoky green light. He’s ugly in his smiling malice, and Henri feels the pit of anger in his stomach harden into contempt as he turns and resumes stomping his way through the undergrowth. His thoughts twitch and buzz in his mind as he kicks through the squishy leaves--Celier, looming over Dega and telling him to shut up. Celier, stealing Dega’s meager lump of bread, offered up for Henri’s sake and snatched with only a token protest from Henri himself. Celier, laughing at the prospect of Dega being humiliated and assaulted in Henri’s absence. 

Had he laughed at the reality of it, too? 

Henri festers with agitation. He chews at his tongue and wishes for water and slaps away leaves with unnecessary violence. 

_You can’t trust him,_ the voice in his heart that sounds like Dega whispers.

“I know,” he mutters under his breath, blinking sweat from his eyes.

He hears Celier crunching his way through the brush behind him and feels a pang of unease. The other man is smug in his silence and near cheerful in his light step where Henri pounds through the unfriendly wilderness like an stupid animal. Somehow it feels like it should be the other way around, but Celier’s quiet as he follows, as though he’s a hunter stalking patiently in the dark.

 _What does that make me?_ Henri wonders.

He feels the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. 

Dega murmurs in his mind.

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis startles awake as voices crash through his consciousness. He sits up, flushed with heat, and he squints against sunlight slanting in through the window. His heart thumps weakly when he realizes that men are returning from Route Zero. He scoots off of the concrete block and keeps his head down as he slinks out of the building, his mind fuzzy with the shock of having slept through the entire day. The setting sun strikes him like a blow as he turns the corner and he ducks away from it to scurry down the stairs, nearly bent double with fear and a sharp twinge of hunger. He’d skipped breakfast and he knows that he can’t afford to miss dinner as well. 

He passes a group of men and walks faster after someone makes a sloppy grab for him, jeering at the way he flinches and curls in on himself as he makes his escape. He’s dripping with anxiety from the near miss by the time he slips into the cafeteria even though it hadn’t been a genuine attempt against him. He freezes up in the doorway and looks for Cormier, desperate for even an unfriendly face if it means protection, but he’s never been among the serving staff before and Louis isn’t surprised that luck isn’t on his side tonight--there’s no sign of Castili’s goon. 

He chews the inside of his lip, hands twitching, as he makes his way forward and accepts a plate of questionable meat-byproduct and stale bread with a quiet, “thank you”, before turning and finding a corner seat at a table in the back. He has to sit and breathe through his panic for several minutes. Even once he’s regulated himself he can’t stop the tremor in his hands as he lifts the old bread and takes a tasteless bite. 

It’s difficult to swallow and it’s impossible to take more into his mouth when he catches an unfamiliar man staring straight at him. He sets the bread down and glances at the doorway, and he nearly bites through his lip when he realizes that he’s put a room full of inmates between himself and the only exit.

 _Papi would be disappointed,_ he thinks with near hysteria. It’s almost funny. His hands start to shake in earnest and he tucks them into his lap in a useless attempt to hide his frayed nerves.

The staring man stands and Louis’ stomach curls up into his ribs like a snake, suffocating him from the inside as he watches the pale-eyed convict saunter up. Louis keeps his eyes on his plate but his world narrows to the man as a wide hand slaps down on the edge of the table. 

“Heard you were lonely last night.”

Louis blinks slowly. He’s struck by a moment of vertigo and wonders if it’s all an unpleasant dream. Someone else makes a mock-kissing sound from somewhere behind the convict and Louis closes his eyes.

“That true? You lonely?”

There is no answer that Louis can give that would make a difference, so he doesn’t say anything. The man angles closer, leaning in until Louis can smell the sharp reek of his sweat, and Louis’ eyes open without his permission and snap to the man’s face. He stares into a pair of handsome blue eyes set deep in a square, beastly face, and he nearly thinks of something clever to say when the man’s hand grabs him roughly by the chin.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep you company,” his new enemy promises, and now Louis can smell the sour aftermath of meat on the man’s breath. 

His stomach turns. He jerks his chin free and tries to stand but he’s made clumsy by the concrete table and immovable bench. A heavy hand lands and claws into his shoulder to keep him in place. 

“Where you going?” the man asks, mock sweet, teeth bared in a smile. “That eager for me, huh? Want me to take you somewhere, just the two of us?”

Louis’ mouth opens but nothing comes out. _I should punch him,_ he thinks. He tries to think of Papi’s instructions--don’t tuck your thumb in, follow through to the back of his head--but his arm is a dead weight at his side. His head fills with static and the man is still speaking, spewing lewd filth that makes the man next to Louis laugh, but he can hardly hear them over the pounding of blood in his ears. 

The hand fists in his shirt and he feels a hard tug. “Get up,” his harasser sneers. “You’ll--”

The man is abruptly shoved to the ground and Louis feels a stitch pop in his shirt when the hand is wrenched free from it. Louis’ head whips up and he stares, stunned, at a towering inmate he doesn’t recognize. The newcomer ignores him in favor of scowling down at the inmate on the ground, who sputters and rolls onto his back, clutching his wrist in one hand and gawking up in outrage. The slurs begin immediately--ugly words about the other inmate’s dark skin, about his heavy eyes and his whore of a mother--but the other inmate is unaffected. He just stares, and even Louis cowers away from the terrible coldness in his eyes. 

The man on the ground scoots back until he’s out of hitting range, and then he stands and spits more vulgarities. He slinks away when the other man makes an aborted lunge; it’s just a threat, but it’s effective--he’s got at least five inches and eighty pounds on Louis’ harasser, and he doesn’t need to say a word to get his point across. 

Louis stares at his savior in wide-eyed disbelief. 

The hulking inmate glances at him, juts his chin up in acknowledgement, and then turns around to find somewhere else to sit and eat his own dinner in peace. Louis’ eyes catch on a jagged scar across the back of his head and abruptly recognizes him. 

_He was in the infirmary,_ he thinks, but can’t recall if he’d ever learned the man’s name. He’d stayed for almost a week after an accident on the Route, and Louis had been especially attentive because the man had been quiet and polite. 

Louis swallows down a mouthful of fear-sour saliva. He glances around the room and finds a handful of others watching him, but when their eyes flicker to his unexpected protector Louis can see them weigh the risk of bodily harm. They look away. Louis grips his hands together and tries to soothe the wild pounding of his heart and can’t help but be astonished at his fortune. He straightens his back and tries to adopt the demeanor of a man unafraid to pick at his disgusting meal at his leisure, like he has all the time in the world, but he manages to eat the bread and two thirds of the mysterious meat before giving up, his stomach roiling in protest as the adrenaline tapers out of his system. He glances at the doorway again and tries to calculate how long he has until dark. Does he have time to shower? He hasn’t had the opportunity to bathe for two days but he decides it isn’t worth the risk. He slowly stands and clears his tray, as if any sudden movement will trigger the men to pursue him like a pack of hounds, and he leaves the cafeteria with his head held high. 

It’s an illusion of confidence at best, but it’s better then cowering.

 _Just get to the barracks,_ he tells himself.

He only makes it outside and around the corner before he notices that he’s being followed. His mind unhelpfully flashes back to a similar terror, back when Papi had been sick and Caiman had gotten him alone long enough to take his glasses and make an attempt for their money. He breath begins to come in fast and his mind stumbles through his options.

 _Better to be caught out here in the open than an alleyway,_ he decides, and he clenches his jaw and swings around to confront his shadow. 

The man is small but packed thick with muscle. He blinks at Louis in surprise, black bushy eyebrows lifting as he gapes and seemingly tries to find something to say at having been caught out. Louis is thrown by the reaction.

“What do you want?” he demands, but he uncurls his fists when the convict throws his hands up in a recognizable gesture of _I mean no harm_. 

He abruptly recognizes this man, too. He’d been a patient not that long ago, although only briefly. Louis stares and wracks his memory. The man had been ill with a bad stomach virus. He’d thrown up all day and Louis had been exasperated but polite as he’d cleaned the floor and offered him fresh water throughout the afternoon. He’d listened to the man’s bad jokes and might have even offered a pity-laugh at a few of least terrible ones. 

His ex-patient shrugs, looking embarrassed. “Was going back to the barracks. Thought maybe you were, too.”

Louis breathes in and risks a minute nod.

“Figured maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have someone watch your back. Since we’re going the same direction.”

The man isn’t much bigger than Louis, which means he’s especially brave or especially stupid, and Louis feels all the more overcome with gratitude at the offer. He dips his head and tries to ignore the sting of relief in his eyes.

“That’s kind of you,” he says slowly, not wanting to betray any other slip of emotion, and then he turns and allows the other man to fall into step beside him. “Thank you.”

The convict shrugs again, like it’s no big deal, like he isn’t potentially saving Louis’ life by walking with him and posturing like he’d have any chance of fighting off more than one attacker. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to put his muscles to the test. It’s still early enough that most of the others are still showering or eating and no one else approaches as they make their way across the prison. They’re mostly ignored, but the ones that do take notice of Louis watch with confusion and amusement as he’s escorted along by his less-than-impressive guardian, and the other men no doubt come to some unsavory conclusions. Louis tries not to burn with shame at his own desperation.

Louis turns once they climb the stairs and reach his barrack, unsure if the man means to join him, and he doesn’t know how to feel when the inmate gives him a firm pat on the back and slips past him to retreat down to the ground floor again. Louis sways and listens as his temporary protector enters the lower barrack and loudly greets someone with an affectionate burst of profanity. And then Louis is alone again. He doesn’t have to worry about this stranger expecting anything in return for the escort, but he does have to worry about the empty space next to him. Papi’s old spot is a black void. It’s an opportunity for pain and humiliation and Louis very nearly pursues his ex-patient to offer the space to him, but he doesn’t. His dignity has suffered enough. 

He fills his lungs and then he turns and enters his barrack. He ignores the ever-curious eyes that follow him, and he’s unspeakably relieved that no one is waiting for him in his usual spot. He climbs up onto the concrete and puts his back into the corner. 

He waits.

It doesn’t take long until the other men start filing in for the night, and one of the regulars in their barrack glances over and takes notice of him. Louis braces himself as the man approaches, looking smug and strong despite this wiry frame and weak chin, but Louis doesn’t miss the way his eyes flicker around the room. Louis wonders if he’s afraid that Papi will appear like a vengeful apparition, or if maybe word has spread that Louis has somehow earned a modicum of goodwill from a handful of inmates and is under someone else’s protection. In either case, Papi does not appear, and whatever rumors are circulating aren’t enough to deter this man. 

Louis licks his teeth. The convict aims a crooked smile at him, hands on his hips like he’s contemplating something interesting, and it’s effortless to track the salacious pathway his eyes carve. The man opens his mouth but Louis beats him to the punch.

“Touch me and I’ll bite your throat out,” he warns in an impressively deep rasp. 

That throws the other man. He stares down at Louis and his jaw works, like he’s rehearsing comebacks, but apparently nothing clever comes to mind and he settles on a scowl. Louis hunches his shoulders and feels like a cornered animal, and doesn’t doubt that he looks the part, too. And that suits him just fine. This man is alone and he’s not going to pull Louis out of his corner without a fight.

“Jesus,” the inmate says with easy amusement, but he’s obviously calculating the risks and the rewards of messing with a desperate man. “Relax, Dega, no need to get nasty. I just want to talk.”

“I have nothing else to say to you,” Louis snaps, heart thundering at the overly-familiar use of his name. _And now you’ve been warned,_ he says with his eyes. 

The man looks behind him as though searching for support, but while he has an attentive audience he doesn’t have the pull to entice anyone else over. Louis balls his fists and prepares to launch himself at the inmate in a preemptive strike, but he’s saved from that stupid decision by the timely arrival of their turnkey, who takes one look in Louis’ direction and barks out a complaint.

“Sit down and shut up.”

The man standing before Louis hesitates. Louis waits him out and only offers a dark look when he turns back and stares down at Louis again. 

“I mean it,” their turnkey shouts, wandering over with his keys clinking on his belt. “Time for lock-up. Go on.”

The man’s eyes flicker to Papi’s empty spot but then the turnkey shoves him in the opposite direction and he reluctantly stumbles away, slowly making his way to his usual sleeping spot on the other side of the barrack. Louis abruptly gasps out a breath. The turnkey glances at him from the corner of his eye and Louis manages to murmur out a, “thank you”, but he’s ignored as he’s locked down for the night.

Louis gets his breathing back under control and tries to collect himself as he watches the other men settle in for the night, and when he meets the weak-chinned man’s bawdy gaze from across the room he allows his lip to curl in revulsion. 

The lamps hum as they go out.

Louis sinks down onto his side and allows himself to marvel at having survived another day unscathed. He quickly convinces himself that Papi’s alright, too. There haven’t been any whispers of any of the escapees being recaptured or killed, and at the moment he knows that that’s all that he can ask for. He sighs and he curls a hand down on the empty space beside him, as though he has a hope of feeling any residual warmth from Papillon’s body.

 _He’ll survive,_ he tells himself, and knows it to be true. Papi’s strong--stronger than anyone that Louis has ever met. He can handle the wilderness and he can handle Celier, and he probably stands a better chance in the jungle than he does in the prison protecting Louis.

_He’ll be alright._

He has to be.

When Louis eventually closes his eyes he dreams in flashes of lime and emerald, and he watches from afar as Papi wades through a colorful, curling sea of leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. Work has me pretty gutted this week, and for the first time since I started this fic I had my doubts about being able to finish it. I'd take a break but I know if I lose momentum I might not have the willpower to pick it up again. So we're going to push through! 
> 
> I guess that's my way of saying that this chapter and future ones might be choppy, but if I have to sacrifice flow and quality of prose just to get the rest of the story out, then so be it.


	16. Seize

Celier finds the road shortly after dawn. Henri tries to get around him to look, ready to bask in the triumph of it after a strenuous night of stumbling through the bush, but Celier stops him with a firm hand. 

“Careful,” he hisses, and as much as Henri wants to shrug him off he understands the other man’s paranoia. It’s the only road in and out of the prison as far as they know, and guards could be arriving or leaving for the morning shift change. 

Henri reluctantly backs away, eyes locked on the glimpse he can see of a flat curve of dirt. After two days of trudging through the jungle a burst of elation catches him off guard, but he doesn’t fight the happy thump of his heart as he marvels at the roadway. 

“Was beginning to wonder if your boy had sent us off to chase our tails,” Celier laughs.

Henri deliberately ignores the jab. Celier had been at his throat for the better part of previous day, but they’d reached an uneasy peace throughout the night and Henri isn’t about to let it fall apart so easily, not when they’re so close. He settles for shrugging and glancing back and forth along the road.

The lightweight feeling of triumph quickly fades.

“Which way do we go?” he wonders, his stomach sinking.

Celier’s dirty face goes slack with realization. “Shit.”

“How far away do you think we are from the prison?”

Celier shoots him a dark look. “How should I know?”

“If we passed the restaurant--”

“We better not have passed it.”

Henri tries to run through every word Dega had ever said about the road and the restaurant, but nothing helpful comes to mind. If they’d passed it, they could wander in the wrong direction for days and never find a sign of civilization. But backtracking along the road meant turning toward the prison--

“Fuck,” Celier snarls, roughly scrubbing a hand along his beard. 

“We’re just going to have to choose,” Henri concludes, “and hope for the best.”

Celier makes an unhappy sound, and it annoys Henri but he doesn’t complain. They’re both starving and still desperately thirsty despite having resorted to drinking tentative mouthfuls of the cleanest looking water that they could find. He can’t expect Celier to be in a better mood than he is.

But the question remained--forwards, or back?

Henri is certain that there’s a logical way to think it through but his thoughts slosh uselessly around his skull, muddled by pain and exhaustion. Celier turns to him expectantly.

What would Dega say?

“This is your escape plan,” Celier mutters. “Which way, Papi?”

Dega would think things through, step by step. Henri tries to do the same, and then he pictures both options and tries to anticipate the worst case scenario for each.

“We go back,” Henri decides. “We’ll know we went the wrong way if we hit the prison. If we go the other way, we could walk for days without knowing we fucked up.”

“We can’t afford to backtrack--”

“We might have to backtrack either way. At least we’ll know for sure if we wind up back at the prison,” Henri argues. 

Celier grunts. He eyes Henri, and then the road, and then he shrugs. “Okay.” 

Henri feels better now, having made a decision, but the thought of taking another step is overwhelming. “We should sleep,” he says slowly. “Guards’ll probably be doing a shift change soon. We should wait to keep going until there’s less of a chance we’ll be seen.”

Celier doesn’t like that suggestion but he can’t seem to think of a good argument against it. He scratches his neck and shrugs again. Henri deflates with relief at the easy acquiescence and turns back to creep deeper into the brush, head spinning. He collapses down against the gnarled roots of a tree once he’s certain that they can’t be seen from the road, and he’s asleep before Celier even manages to sit down beside him.

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis sits on the edge of the concrete block and doesn’t know what to do. He’s not an infirmary staffer anymore but he’s not about to volunteer his services to the Route. He watches the other men stand and stretch and watch him back and wonders if he can get away with loitering around the prison until his release. He doubts it. Guibert must have informed the warden or the deputy warden of his unemployment by now--he’s probably even already replaced Louis.

 _Is it better to be collected or to go with dignity?_ he wonders. He pictures a guard bodily dragging him from the barrack and down to the courtyard with the rest of the inmates and blanches. The other men already think he’s pathetic, the last thing he needs is to give them more ammunition.

Louis closes his eyes. He’s gotten out of Route Zero duty for months. He tells himself that he should be grateful for the reprieve that he’s already gotten thanks to Papi, and then stands and follows a line of tired-eyed men out of the barracks. A few glance at him but he pretends that he has a rightful place among them and they lose interest quickly enough. They know as well as he does that there’s not much they can do outside of the barracks in the light of morning, not with guards patrolling the walkways. He thinks he’s probably safe enough until evening. He doesn’t know what he’ll do then but--

He stops short when he finds Cormier waiting against the wall of the lower barrack, and he earns an elbow to the ribs for inconveniencing the men behind him. He stumbles a step out of the way and then apprehensively turns back to Cormier, who narrows his eyes and jerks his chin in an unmistakable ‘get over here’ motion.

_Might be about my release_ , Louis thinks with a pang of excitement. But then he remembers Cormier’s task to kill Papillon, and he considers the fact that Cormier has probably rightly guessed that Louis had a hand in his escape. Louis’ heart stutters faster as he examines the unpleasant look on Cormier’s face.

He turns and tries to rejoin the stream of men to the courtyard but a meaty hand immediately takes him by the forearm and wrenches him back. Louis makes a strangled noise of pain but says nothing as he’s dragged between the barracks. Cormier shoves him and he nearly tumbles to the ground, rubbing his arm and staring balefully as Cormier draws himself up to his impressive full height. 

Louis tries to redirect his apprehension into annoyance. “What do you want?”

Cormier’s eyes narrow to fleshy slits. “You got yourself fired from the infirmary.”

Louis only hesitates for a beat, but he’s thrown by the topic. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

“Why?”

“Irreconcilable differences between myself and the good doctor. What does it matter to you?”

Cormier takes a half step forward, but Louis is tired of the empty intimidation tactics and manages to avoid flinching away. “It matters,” Cormier replies with murderous disdain, “because despite wanting to break your head open myself, it’s my job to keep you alive.”

“Well, in that case, let’s hope this task goes better than your last one.”

Surprise flashes across Cormier’s face, quickly chased by anger at the reminder of his failure. They stand and stare at each other in silence for a moment and Louis wonders if Cormier is weighing his annoyance with him against Castili’s fury. In the end, his fear of his employer wins out. His clenched hands stay curled at his sides. 

“You’re getting to be more trouble than you’re worth.”

“Evidently not,” Louis snarks. 

In a remarkable display of self-control, Cormier doesn’t surrender to the obvious desire to hit him in the face. “You’ll do what you’re told,” Cormier warns him. “And you’ll be grateful for the opportunity.”

Louis makes a noise of contempt but Cormier abruptly crowds him against the wall and he freezes up.

“Your life doesn’t belong to you anymore,” Cormier tells him, dropping each word like a ten pound weight. “You’re nothing more than property now and you’re going to do exactly as I tell you. And then you’re going to do exactly what Mr. Castili says.”

Louis looks away, knowing it to be true but not wanting to be cowed by it, and Cormier grabs him by the shirt and crushes him angrily against the building for his defiance. Louis wheezes and flicks his eyes toward the courtyard with the hope of catching the attention of a guard. His head goes white with relief when he recognizes Doctor Guibert standing at the mouth of the alleyway, and he draws in a quick breath to call out but Guibert averts his eyes and steps around the corner.

Louis stares after him, dread and confusion curling tight in his belly. Guibert had seen. He knows that he had seen but--

Cormier gives him a hard shake. “You step out of line again, the deal is off. We’ll arrange some new charges for you and you’ll rot here for the rest of your miserable life--I’ll personally make sure that you find yourself in Île Saint-Joseph, and then we won’t have to worry about you anymore.” He leans in close again. “You’ll kill yourself by Christmas. I guarantee it.”

Cormier couldn’t know it, but it’s a harrowing echo of a different sentiment. Louis swallows down a sharp cocktail of fury and grief.

“You’re going to mind me, Mr. Dega. Do you understand?” Louis says nothing. Cormier makes an angry noise and grabs his arm again. “You’re coming to the kitchens.”

Louis stutters in a breath of surprise, but Cormier digs his fingers in deeper and pulls him along without another word.

✧ ✧ ✧

Henri dreams of the slick squick of mud and of Castili with his hands around Dega’s skinny neck. Henri tries to struggle to them but he’s slipping and losing ground with each step. Panic makes him clumsy and he can’t make sense of the way his arms and legs feel like they’re filled with lead. He thinks he hears Castili say something, something he can’t understand, but Dega’s anguished noises fill his ears and drip down into his own throat, threatening to suffocate him, and then something tugs at the seam of a memory. He’s filled with a sickening fear, and it gives him the strength to lunge and wrestle Castili to the ground, where he fights the old man until he’s pinned on his back in the filth. _Fuck you,_ he tries to shout, but the words gum up in his mouth, and so Henri drops his fist on Castili’s nose and revels in the hot spray of blood. He hits him again, and again, until there’s no resistance against his knuckles and it feels like he’s punching a lump of rotten fruit.

Henri gags like he can smell it. He staggers to his feet and sways away, staring down at the ruined mess of Castili’s face, and he feels nothing but vicious satisfaction at the sight of the gore. He heaves in air and slips back another step in the mud and then raises his hands to examine his candy-red palms. He clenches and unclenches his fists and marvels at the way they stick.

“Papi,” Dega whispers.

He sounds hoarse and afraid. Henri turns to find him staring down at what’s left of Castili. Henri studies Dega’s bruised face and moves toward him, desperate to touch and soothe, but Dega shies away like a timid animal. Henri goes still, stomach turning. There’s fear in Dega’s pretty eyes and it has nothing to do with Castili anymore.

Henri’s bloody hands begin to shake. He reaches for Dega again and catches him angrily by the hair when Dega turns his back and tries to run.

He wakes with his heart slamming against his ribcage.

He groans low in the back of his throat and shudders. He remembers his hand fisted harshly in Dega’s hair back in the barracks and feels queasy at the reminder of wanting to hurt him. 

_That was different,_ he tells himself weakly. _And this was just a dream._

He swallows hard and stares up at the twittering canopy, trying to reorient himself. He ignores the sting in his eyes as he absently traces the dappled bits of sunlight that make the leaves glow green and gold, and he thinks of the color of Dega’s eyes in the last glow of an evening.

“Louis,” he murmurs. The name trembles in the back of his throat and lingers like the burn of good liquor, but it leaves him missing Dega and feeling hollowed out inside. 

He wipes his eyes and struggles to sit up, head throbbing with thirst. Celier’s out cold beside him, arms crossed over his chest like he’s as ornery in his sleep as he is when he’s awake. It’s almost funny. Henri shoves at his shoulder and Celier’s pale eyes blink open immediately.

“Time to go,” Henri rasps.

Celier’s up and on his feet before Henri can even think about doing the same. It takes a concentrated effort to coordinate his aching limbs enough to stand. Celier turns away and stalks back toward the road without a word. Henri follows, his mind still twisted up with visions of Dega terrified of him, and he only shrugs one shoulder in vague agreement when Celier grumbles about staying out of sight. 

It’s slow going, keeping close enough to the road to see it without being seen, dropping down to the rain-damp ground each time they think they hear something louder than a bird-call. Only one car passes, and it blazes past before Henri can even think to sink into the shivering fronds. Celier glances over, eyes wide and reproachful even though he hadn’t had time to hide either. Henri looks away before the temptation to punch Celier blooms into action. He tries not to think about the nightmare and the phantom twinge of pain in his knuckles.

He hears the ex-sailor move on, and he only hesitates for a moment before trailing after him.

✧ ✧ ✧

“Fuck.”

“Fuck,” Celier agrees grimly. “What now?”

Henri rubs sweat out of his eyes and looks back and forth between the split in the road. He tries to bite down a swell of panic. _Think,_ he commands himself, but he’s burnt low and suddenly terrified of the decision they’ll have to make. 

“Which--” he starts, then takes a breath and rephrases. He gestures toward the road that twists to the right. “That’s north, right? Northeast?” Celier nods. “Then that must lead to the prison.” Henri turns his head to stare at the foreboding road to the left. “And that probably leads west.”

“Okay. We keep on toward the prison.”

Henri hesitates. “No, I think we should head west.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Celier explodes. “Before you said--”

“I know what I said,” Henri snaps, bristling at the challenge. “But this changes things.”

“How?”

Henri tries to ignore the derision in Celier’s tone. “We’ve been walking for hours. We must be close to the prison. The restaurant isn’t supposed to be that close to it--”

“Then what was all that shit about backtracking?” Celier shouts.

“That road was leading south--have you looked at a map of French Guiana?” Henri asks. Celier goes quiet. “Dega did. As soon as he found out he’d be sent here, he got his lawyer to get ahold of a map and studied it. There’s nothing in the interior of this fucking country. It’s all along the coast.”

“So what?”

Henri tries to remember what Dega had whispered weeks ago, curled up against him in the barracks as he’d recalled what he’d seen. “So why would there be a restaurant between the prison and the middle of nowhere? If that road leads west, it probably leads to a town. If the restaurant is going to be anywhere, it’ll be there.”

“So we don’t go south. But how do you know it’s not closer to the prison? You said we should keep going toward it.”

“That was true before,” Henri snaps, exasperation and exhaustion leaving him on edge. He’s too tired to put his hunch into words. “This other road? It changes things.”

Celier stares, his weather-beaten face contorted with distrust. His eyes narrow as he searches for an argument but Henri abruptly pushes past him.

“Do what you want,” he says harshly, ignoring the noise that Celier makes at the dismissal. “I’m going this way.”

He quickly looks around and, certain that the roads are empty, jogs across the unpaved path to sink back into the curl of green on the other side. He begins moving along the treeline again and he’s nearly disappointed when he hears Celier fall into step behind him.

✧ ✧ ✧

After the brutal labor of the Route and the vile mess of the infirmary, kitchen work is a luxury.

Louis has never been much of a cook but he falls into the rhythm of cleaning and chopping lunch for the guards as Cormier sits by and lazily supervises, playing with a carving blade between his hands. Louis isn’t sure if it’s meant to be a threat or not, but it’s a stupid one if it is. He knows that Cormier’s not going to hurt him now, not beyond a simple beating--he’s too afraid of Castili, and after Papi’s escape he must be on thin ice with his boss. Louis revels in that as Cormier barks out commands and makes him do all of the grunt work.

“You’re too slow,” Cormier informs him. Louis glances over to find his eyes glazed with boredom, and he absently wonders who Cormier displaced to land Louis the job. “Hurry up.”

Feeling audacious in his annoyance, Louis wipes his hands on his shirt and pushes his glasses up the bridge of nose. “What did you do?”

Cormier blinks, gaze sharpening in his confusion. 

“What did you do that got you sent here?” Louis clarifies, near sweet in his nonchalance. Cormier’s thin lips twist. “You must have done something. Castili certainly wouldn’t have sent you here just for Papillon and myself. No, you were already on your way here, weren’t you?”

The small blade in Cormier’s hands goes still. His hand tightens on the handle but Louis hardly spares it a glance. Maybe it’s sleep deprivation, maybe it’s his despair at having sent Papi away too soon because of this man, or maybe it’s the fact that he’s simply fed up with being pushed around, but he finds immense enjoyment in needling Cormier. 

“Come on,” he says, smiling like they’re friends sharing secrets over drinks. “What is it that you did to find yourself in a place like this?”

“Shut the fuck up and get back to work.”

Louis shrugs one shoulder and turns back toward the sink. He scrubs at a pan but doesn’t relent. “It couldn’t have been too bad, or else your employer would have had you killed outright. But to be sent here… he’s obviously not too happy with you.”

He hears Cormier draw in an angry breath, but there’s a thump by the back door and they both turn to watch a guard shoulder through it. Louis eyes the crate in his arms and starts to move forward, but Cormier shoots him a warning look and then approaches to have a quiet conversation with the guard. Louis studies the man. He looks vaguely familiar, in the way that most of the guards do--he’s older than Louis but not by much, and his lip is topped with a thick black mustache, neatly trimmed in the same style as many of the other staff members at the prison. 

Louis watches as Cormier takes the crate and heaves it into the corner of the kitchen, back behind a half-empty shelf. He feels curiosity bloom in his skull, intoxicating and dangerous. They’d gotten two other crates so far and Cormier had made him do the heavy lifting both times--what was different about this one? He glances back at the guard, who adjusts his hat and nods at Cormier before turning on his heel and slamming through the door again. Louis wanders over to watch as Cormier pries the crate open and begins sorting bags of flour from smaller, tightly bound sacks. He loiters just out of the corner of Cormier’s vision and tries to figure out why Cormier needs to handle this himself, and he’s even more confused when Cormier opens one of the small bags, examines the flour inside, and grunts with satisfaction before rewrapping it. 

Cormier begins shoving the smaller bags of flour under the counter behind a bin of scuffed-up spoons and forks. Louis stares, bewildered, and tries to puzzle out why Cormier seems to be hiding them. Then a thought connects within his mind with an almost audible _click_. 

“Heroin?” he asks.

Cormier startles and turns to narrow his eyes at Louis. “Get back to work.”

“You’re smuggling heroin in?” he asks again, and then nearly laughs. “That’s why--you supplied Guittou with it, in exchange for--”

“Shut the fuck up.” Cormier’s tone is hard but Louis is bold in his curiosity and the certainty that Cormier can’t hurt him too grievously.

“Dr. Guibert said that Guittou had an addiction to it, and that it weakened his heart. I hadn’t realized that Guittou had access here, but that does explain why his rash never seemed to go away.”

Cormier decides to ignore him and goes back to stuffing the little bags under the counter.

“I’m impressed,” Louis confides. “Castili has an operation an ocean away--”

“Not Castili,” Cormier snaps. Louis falls silent. Cormier pauses and then turns back to glance over his shoulder, and Louis recognizes something like pride in his dull expression. “This is mine. I arranged this.”

“With the help of that guard, the one Castili put in place,” Louis challenges, earning a bitter frown from the larger man. He considers, and then he changes tactics. “But all the same--as I said, I’m impressed. You certainly have used your connections to your best advantage.”

Cormier doesn’t look convinced. His face pinches in a scowl and he stalks away, only to return with a mop in hand. “Shut your mouth and clean the fucking floor,” he demands.

Louis grumbles out an token protest when the mop is thrown down at his feet, but he picks it up all the same. He wanders away to find a bucket, and then proceeds to wipe the tile and talk about how much nicer it is to clean up a kitchen than an infirmary, intentionally grating on Cormier’s nerves with his mindless chatter.

✧ ✧ ✧

Cormier disappears on their last break but Louis elects to remain in the kitchen, wary of making himself vulnerable by walking the prison alone. He leans against the sink and he thinks about those little bags until Cormier returns and throws him in indecipherably smug look, though the only thing he says is, “get to work.”

He goes back to annoying Cormier with errant thoughts as he wipes down the counters, just to be consistent, but he quiets down around dinner time. He knows he got lucky in the cafeteria the night before, just as he knows that he can’t rely on the chance someone will protect him again, and so he becomes more accommodating to Cormier as the evening creeps in and they prepare a truly lackluster meal of bread and overcooked rice for the convicts. Louis chews at his lip as an angry-looking pair of inmates arrive to take the food to the cafeteria, and he turns to Cormier and clears his throat once they’ve left with the first batch.

“I’m going to eat in here,” he declares. Cormier stares at him. “That’s what you do, isn’t it? You’re never in the cafeteria.” Cormier ignores the question and Louis shrugs, near casual. “It’s safer for me to stay here.”

Cormier looks less than thrilled at the prospect of spending a single moment more than necessary together, but the logic of it is enough to sway him. He grunts and then unlocks and rummages through a cabinet. Louis stares as he pulls out two tins of canned peaches and proceeds to open and eat both without another word. Louis feels his temper simmer but he doesn’t give Cormier the satisfaction for asking about the row of canned fruit he’d glimpsed. He turns away and settles for doling out a portion of rice and a piece of bread for himself.

It’s only after he’s eaten and begun scrubbing at the items returned from the cafeteria that Cormier crosses his arms and leans against the counter next to him, forcing Louis to turn and give him his full attention. Louis does so begrudgingly. 

“You made Papillon’s escape possible.”

Louis hesitates, hands dripping with soapy water. There’s no point in denying it but he doesn’t want to give Cormier the pleasure of an admission. 

Cormier doesn’t seem to need one.

“You were informed of the success of your appeal,” the other man grumbles out. “And two days later Papillon sets the Route on fire and escapes. But you’re still here. Did you think you were leaving that day? You miscalculated.”

Louis narrows his eyes.

“And you’ve created problems for yourself. You got yourself fired from the infirmary, you left yourself to eat and shower and sleep alone. You’ve made yourself a target.” 

“Yes,” Louis remarks dryly, “thank you for the summation.”

“I’m not a babysitter. Certainly not for a man like _you_.” Louis puffs up at that but doesn’t interrupt. “I’ve arranged for someone else to have that particular headache.”

“What?”

A rare smile finds its way to Cormier’s mouth, though it looks strained and unnatural. “An old friend of yours.” 

Louis doesn’t like the sound of that. 

“René Dumont. You should remember him well. I understand you two became intimately acquainted not that long ago.” Cormier’s smile widens at the look on his face. Louis hardly notices over the sudden squeeze of pain in his chest.

“No,” he protests, but his voice comes out small.

“Don’t look so alarmed. He’ll protect you until your release, at his own peril. With El Caimán in Île Saint-Joseph and the other two in the bay, he knows better than to do anything stupid.”

Louis looks away, throat tight. He means to bite his tongue but an echo rings in his mind and he frowns down at the murky water of the sink. “They’re dead? The ‘other two’. I know one was executed after Guittou but--”

“The other died on the Route weeks ago. They say the heat got him.”

Louis doesn’t know how to feel. There’s a sick relief in knowing that Fernández is dead, certainly, but the prospect of being guard-dogged by Dumont for the remainder of his time at the prison--

“René’s been warned. He won’t let anything happen to you.” Cormier’s mouth twists, eyes sharp with amusement. “Or do anything to you himself. Unless you ask nicely.”

Louis abruptly resumes washing the dishes and feels his face grow hot with anger. If Cormier’s disappointed that he doesn’t rise to the bait he doesn’t show it.

“Don’t wander off,” he warns. “You made a scene in the cafeteria last night and a man’s pride was injured. Believe me when I say that you don’t want to be caught alone.”

Cormier pushes off of the counter and stalks to the other side of the room to sit and do nothing. Louis scrubs until his hands are raw.

✧ ✧ ✧

Henri pants around his sore tongue and stares at the low concrete building from across the road. He’s pretty sure that they’re on the outskirts of a town. The restaurant sits between two equally abysmal looking structures, and Henri can’t immediately identify what they’re supposed to be but they seem mercifully empty. He licks his cracked lips and stares longingly, nearly driven to desperation by thirst and hunger, but Celier clasps his shoulder in a firm hand.

“Are you sure this is it?”

“Yeah,” Henri says, but he sounds even less certain than he feels. It seems obvious--of course this is the right restaurant, what other one could possibly be so close to the prison? But he’s made stupid with exhaustion and it’s easy for doubt to press in against the back of his skull. 

He sizes those doubts up and then he decides--even if it’s _not_ the right one, they need water and they need food. He straightens and takes a deep breath, and then trots across the road to the bright red door, which seems blatantly out of place in the dingy concrete face of the building. He only hesitates for a moment before pulling the door open and slipping inside. Celier follows and slams it behind him with a startling finality. Henri sways where he stands, stomach rioting at the smell of old grease and beer, and he blinks against the gloom before turning to stare at a tacky assortment of decorations and mismatched chairs. Celier claps him on the back and passes him to lean against the bar on the other side of the room. Henri follows, legs wobbly with relief, and stares appraisingly at the stranger behind the counter.

The man stares back. He doesn’t look particularly happy, but he doesn’t seem surprised either. He eyes their clothing with distaste and seems to recognize their uniforms.

“You’re here for Julot?” the man asks.

Henri nods and tries to place the accent. He hears the man mutter something under his breath before beckoning Henri closer. Celier collapses down into a barstool and groans.

“He said you were coming. You have money?” the man demands.

“Some,” Henri answers without thinking, and he’ll later blame dehydration and sleep deprivation for his stupidity. Celier goes deadly still. Henri doesn’t have any trouble recognizing his mistake for what it is, but it’s too late to take it back now. He decides that he’ll come up with something to tell Celier later, when his stomach isn’t knotting with hunger. The smell of grease has relented and his nose tunes into various other smells. Garlic, charred meat, onions--he swallows hard and collapses onto a stool beside Celier and ignores the look that’s sent his way.

The man nods and retreats into the back, and Henri suddenly can’t stand Celier’s narrowed eyes. “What?” he asks with annoyance, though he knows perfectly well why Celier’s pissed off.

“What money?”

Henri shrugs one shoulder, and even that seems like too much effort. His head swims unpleasantly. “Dega’s lawyer sent some, but not much.”

“Or Dega didn’t give it all to you,” Celier accuses.

Henri closes his eyes and goes back to ignoring him. What Celier thinks of Dega is irrelevant now. Dega’s in Paris, and Celier’s stuck in French Guiana for the foreseeable future.

“That bitch,” Celier mutters. “That fucking _bitch_.”

Henri grits his teeth and tunes out Celier’s fury. They’ve made it this far and he’s not about to get into a fistfight with Celier over a bit of name-calling, not when they have to make a decent impression or risk getting kicked out. Or worse.

Henri startles when the man emerges from the back with a bundle of clothing under his arm. He throws it onto the bartop.

“I do not know if they all will fit well,” the man says, eyeing them both warily. “He said one of you would be small.”

The abrupt reminder that Dega’s supposed to be beside him instead of Celier is a punch to the gut, and it cuts deeper than any slur Celier could come up with. Henri shakes his head and doesn’t know what to say, but the man doesn’t appear to be expecting an answer. 

“You wash up first.” He points behind him. “There is a hose out in the back.”

“We’re starving. And thirsty,” Celier protests, but the man shakes his head and raises his voice.

“You wash up first. Drink from the hose if you need it. _Then_ you will eat.”

Henri’s too tired to argue. He reaches for the clothes and quickly sorts them--Celier’s shorter but broader in the shoulders, so Henri takes the longer pants but the smaller shirt, and he’s relieved when Celier takes what he’s offered with only an unhappy grunt. Henri stands and has to brace a hand against the counter until his vision clears. He turns to offer a weak attempt at a smile at the man behind the bar, who doesn’t smile back.

“I’m Henri,” he manages to rasp out, and he takes the fact that the man shakes his extended hand as a good sign.

“Adrián.”

“You own this place?”

The man offers a terse nod, clearly reluctant to say more, so Henri bobs his head and follows Celier through the cluttered kitchen and out of the back door. He blinks out at the greying twilight and watches as Celier struggles to unknot the hose and twist it on at the spigot. Celier raises it to his mouth and drinks for a long time before passing it to Henri.

He drinks his fill and passes it back, face dripping, eyes stinging with relief. They pass it back and forth twice more before Celier strips and rinses quickly with the freezing water. Henri stands with their new clothes in his arms and finally feels a sense of calm settle over him. They’d made it to the restaurant alive. They have access to food and water and clothes that won’t immediately give them away as escaped criminals, and Henri has a pocket of rolled francs. He stares across the yard, eyes absently flicking from a burned out truck to a stack of old tires to a rusted child’s bicycle. 

“Papi,” Celier grumbles.

Henri startles out of his reverie and stares at Celier’s outstretched hand. He passes over Celier’s clothes and watches as he dresses without drying off. Henri waits, expecting Celier to return the favor and hold his shirt and pants for him, but Celier storms back into the kitchen without so much as a backward glance. Henri wrestles down his annoyance. He drops his clothes on a dry spot on the ground and then strips, and he takes three times as long as Celier had to clean himself. He doesn’t want a single trace of the jungle on him and he delights in the opportunity to fill his mouth with cold water. 

He shakes off as best he can and then pulls the worn but clean clothes on, buttoning the shirt up past his tattoo for good measure. He turns to follow Celier inside but pauses to frown down at their discarded uniforms. The worn red stripes of their pants are an obvious give-away, but they’re stiff with sweat and grime and he’s reluctant to touch them with his clean hands. He settles for nudging them under a sheet of metal with his boot, and then he slowly makes his way back through the kitchen and into the bar just in time to see a plate of chicken and rice set on the counter. His stomach puckers with want but Celier’s already seated and ready for it, and Henri can only sit down one stool away and wait for Adrián to return with another plate. 

He refrains from snatching the food out of Adrián’s hands when it comes, but only just barely. He eats with the desperation of a man that hasn’t had a meal in three days, and he nearly misses it when Adrián crosses his arms and informs them that he’s called Julot.

Henri pauses, mouth full, and nods in gratitude. Adrián eyes him.

“It will be a few hours. He says that he is in Cayenne and needs to get a car.”

Henri can’t really remember where Cayenne is. Hell, he doesn’t even really know where _they_ are, but he nods again and tries to look appreciative. 

“I expect my clothes back,” Adrián informs them before sniffing obnoxiously and returning to the kitchen. Henri chews and listens to the sound of a sink running. Celier drops his fork on his empty plate and sighs, leaning back so far that Henri’s sure he’ll tumble off of the stool.

“Feels good to be full,” Celier muses. “And now I’m going to take a shit.”

Henri rolls his eyes and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, watching as Celier wanders off toward a narrow hall around the side of the room. Henri decides to take the brief opportunity for privacy and pulls the rolled francs from his pocket. The little cloth that Dega had wrapped them in is damp, as are the bills when Henri carefully unravels the napkin. _Shit,_ he thinks, remembering more than one trek through a creek and several days worth of sweat and humidity, but the francs are more or less intact. He counts them out and is surprised by how much is left--Dega had made it sound like there would be a lot less. He feels a stab of annoyance and wonders if Dega had lied to get him to take the roll or if he just didn’t consider this amount to be ‘much money’. 

His eye catches on a smudge of black under the francs. He sets them aside and stares down at the empty napkin, and then his eyes glaze over and his throat gets thick as he traces a finger over the inked lines of a butterfly. _When did he have the time to do this?_ Henri wonders. His pulse pounds as he imagines Dega hunched over the little desk in the infirmary, sneaking moments here and there to draw it out, knowing Henri wouldn’t see it until it was too late to say thank-you.

_Damn him,_ Henri thinks, but there’s no bite behind it. He reverently covers the butterfly with his palm and swallows a prickle of wetness back into his throat. He carefully rolls the napkin back up and puts it in his pocket, and then presses his hand over the slight impression of it as though to reassure himself that it’s there. 

He hears the sink shut off and he quickly tucks the francs into his other pocket. Adrián doesn’t even look up as he returns to stack the two empty plates and retreats back into the kitchen, not even at Henri’s softly muttered, “thanks.”

Henri slumps his head against his hand, bracing his elbow against the bartop, and he’s trying to decide if he’s pathetic enough to curl up and sleep on the sticky floor when something creaks behind him. He turns and stares as a man in a tan uniform enters the restaurant with a familiar hat tucked under his arm. Henri abruptly faces forward again. His guts twist back toward his spine as the guard barks out a greeting and sits down two stools away. Adrián peeks out from the kitchen and says something Henri can’t understand and disappears again.

The guard glances over at Henri. Henri decides that it’s more suspicious to pretend not to have noticed, and so he half-turns and inclines his head in acknowledgment. 

“Damn Creole,” the guard grumbles in a way that sounds like he’s fishing for comradery. 

Henri nods again and risks another glance, and his scalp prickles when he sees the guard do a double-take toward him.

Henri’s mind sputters and spins, fearing he’s been recognized. He swallows around a pit of anxiety and then wonders if he should run. He might get away, especially if he lands a good punch first, but he’s frozen by indecision. If he hasn’t been recognized, he’ll have blown his chance to meet with Julot and he’ll be back to running through the goddamn jungle. And what if he’s too slow? He’s weakened from traveling through the brush for three days without real rest. And what if the guard is armed? Henri’s eyes flick down to the man’s belt, but if he has a handgun it’s holstered on his left side. That seems unlikely, though--most men are right-handed. 

The guard throws his hat on the bar and grumbles and stretches, seemingly at ease. Henri relaxes a fraction. He tells himself he’s being paranoid. But then the man’s eyes return to him and drop to his chest, and Henri can feel the gaze like a sunburn, burning dead-on where his tattoo is hidden by his borrowed shirt. 

_He knows._

Henri feels a wave of grief wash through him and tries to imagine what an extended stay in solitary might be like. What would Dega do, alone in Europe for two years? Would he come to French Guiana to try to find him? Would--

The guard looks away. Henri still hasn’t let go of the breath he’s holding hostage in his throat, but his eyes widen with surprise when the man shouts at Adrián to bring him a steak and a beer. He’s back to looking relaxed, downright _lazy_. Henri hisses out an exhale but it’s too loud for the stuffy silence in the restaurant and the guard glances over again. Henri stares as the man raises an eyebrow and quirks his mouth like he thinks something’s funny.

Henri’s heart starts racing again. 

Is the guard waiting to call for help? 

Should he run--?

An obnoxious sigh proceeds Celier, and Henri’s head goes blank with alarm when the ex-sailor strolls out of the hallway and then stops dead in the center of the restaurant, eyes fixed on the guard. The guard turns to look, his eyes roving between them, and he opens his mouth but Celier’s on him before he can get a word out. 

Henri lurches up from his stool and it flies back with a clatter. He shouts out, struck dumb with horror as Celier tugs a steak knife from the back of his waistband and jabs it into the guard’s throat. There’s a wet, guttural gurgle and a flash of metal as Celier yells something and jerks away. The door to the kitchen bangs open but Henri doesn’t risk turning his head.

The guard hits the ground and tries to gulp in air. He coughs up a rope of saliva instead, and the red of it looks startlingly stark against his straw-colored mustache. Henri staggers back against the bar and chokes on the coppery tang that fills his nose, his mind reeling.

Celier wipes his wrist across his forehead and steps back again, heaving hard, and Adrián starts to shout at them but the words buzz meaninglessly around Henri’s head. His eyes stay fixed on the guard, tracking the molasses-slow creep of blood across the floor as the man goes still.

“What did you do?” Henri asks hoarsely. His belly turns and threatens to gush out the food he’d just filled it with.

Celier turns toward him but doesn’t answer. Adrián barks something in what the guard had identified as Creole but Henri ignores him again. The man on the floor breathes out and a small bubble swells and then pops on his lips. Henri closes his eyes.

He opens them again once the guard’s weakening rasps have died out. He finds Celier leaning against the bar next to him, knife still in hand, and Henri stares dully at it. “When did you--?” he starts, but his voice fails him. 

Celier glances at him from the corner of his eye and shrugs. Henri thinks of Celier re-entering the restaurant through the kitchen while Henri bathed and understands Celier had taken the opportunity to swipe it. Henri wonders what he’d have done with it if the guard hadn’t shown up.

“Clean this up!” Adrián howls in French, and then turns on his heel and retreats back into the kitchen.

Henri listens as the man begins speaking loudly, like he’s talking on the phone, and Henri can only hope that he’s calling Julot and telling him to hurry. He sways and then shakes his head, wanting to tell Celier to deal with his own mess, but the shock is wearing off and he’s teetering back into survival mode. They need to hide the body and wipe up the blood before anyone else comes through that door.

“We have to hurry,” he says. The words come out empty and stilted. Celier nods, and Henri watches as he leans down to clean the knife on the guard’s uniform before stuffing it into the back of his pants. 

Henri tries not to wonder why he thinks he’ll need it again.

✧ ✧ ✧

They wrap the guard’s body in a blanket reluctantly provided by their host and then haul it out through the kitchen and into the backyard. Henri’s world feels off kilter and he’s struck by a terrible sense of déjà vu. How many wrapped bodies will he have to carry with Celier?

They dump the guard’s corpse behind the charred truck. Henri stares for a moment, then turns his face away. Celier tuts at him and tries to examine his clothing for bloodstains, but Henri knows it’s too dark to tell.

“Why did you do that?” Henri hears himself ask. He feels very far away from himself.

“He was a guard, Papi. He recognized us.”

“You don’t know that.”

Celier makes a noise of disbelief. Henri reluctantly replays the guard’s reactions in his mind and sucks in an unsteady breath. “Even if he did, I don’t think he was going to turn us in,” he mutters.

Celier laughs at that. It’s mocking, but it glances harmlessly off of Henri’s back. 

“He seemed--”

“Papi, leave it. It’s done. He’s dead.” Henri sees Celier gesture at the body from the corner of his vision but doesn’t turn to look. “It doesn’t matter what he was going to do. He can’t do it now.”

Henri rubs his mouth before remembering what his hands had just done. He turns to shove past Celier but the other man grabs him by the shirt. Henri’s hand twitches with the desire to beat him silly.

“Keep your shit together,” Celier warns. He tugs lightly and then lets go, and Henri narrows his eyes with agitation. “It’ll be the guillotine if we’re caught now.”

Henri knows that. He’s known it from the moment Celier pulled that knife.

“Fuck you,” is all he can come up with to say.

Celier’s eyes flash in the dark. Henri thinks of Celier’s outrage at finding out that Henri had money in his pocket. He thinks of a stolen steak knife. He runs the days of Celier’s hostility through his mind and traces it back to that night in the cafeteria when Henri had decidedly taken Dega’s side, even after Dega had called Celier a cunt to his face. He thinks that’s where the tension had come to a head. After months letting Celier’s cruelty slide, that one moment of allegiance to Dega had turned Celier against him.

Henri feels vaguely disappointed, but knows that he probably shouldn’t be. Celier had liked him, had treated him like a brother from the first day they’d met, but Henri had chosen someone else.

_He thought it was me and him,_ Henri thinks. _Now he knows it never was._

He abruptly feels very tired, but Celier’s staring at him like he’s waiting for something. _An excuse to pull that knife again,_ Henri speculates darkly. He’s almost willing to take his chances and throw a punch, but then he thinks of Dega. He thinks of promises made on both sides and knows that Dega would never forgive him if he risked everything just to get into a fight with nothing to gain.

_You’re smarter than that,_ the Dega in his mind murmurs. Henri’s not so sure, but he feels the tension drain out of his shoulders all the same. _Fix this,_ Dega encourages, _before it’s too late._

Henri licks his teeth and exhales slowly. “Sorry,” he says, and the words dig in and drag across his mouth like they’ve got thorns. “You’re right. Can’t risk getting caught. We don’t know what this asshole would have done.”

It’s dark but Henri doesn’t miss the hitch of surprise in Celier. He waits, hoping he’s said enough, but Celier holds out.

“I’m tired. Wasn’t thinking straight,” he tries again. “You did what you had to.”

Celier nods, and just like that he claps Henri on the shoulder and smiles. Henri can see the faint glisten of his teeth in the strengthening starlight. 

“Come on then, let’s go, Papi. We’re not done yet.”

Henri pictures the sluggish crawl of blood across the floor and swallows down a roil of disgust in his stomach. He nods as soon as the nausea passes, and he allows Celier to sling a companionable arm across his shoulders and steer him back across the yard to the restaurant. 

Celier begins chatting about where they’ll wind up sleeping for the night as they walk, but Henri’s thoughts stay fixed on the knife tucked into the back of Celier’s waistband.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my guys, I did not proofread this half as well as I should have--I reread it in sections out of order and over the course of like five days, so I have no idea how this chapter reads as a whole but! that's okay! I don't care! I'll try to go over it this weekend and fix up any outlandishly terrible parts I find, but feel free to point out anything obvious in the meantime.
> 
> in other news, thank you for your support and encouragement! You've all been awesome and at this point this fic is genuinely a group effort lmao


	17. Dix-sept

The restaurant is quiet, and cool, and it’s Henri’s first night since his escape without insects crawling on his face. The temptation to crawl under a table and sleep grows as the minutes pass into an hour, into two, and he’s slumped over a table and nearly unconscious when a thought crashes through him with the ferocity of an unexpected fist. He sits up so suddenly he gets lightheaded.

“He drove here.”

Celier raises his head from his arms and stares blearily at him. 

“The guard,” Henri says, louder. “He must have driven here from the prison.” He watches as comprehension dawns on Celier’s face. “It’s still out front.”

“Go deal with it, then!”

Henri nearly protests, but he realizes that he wouldn’t trust Celier to get him a glass of water right now, much less do a good job of hiding the guard’s vehicle.

“Bastard,” he grumbles, rising from the table and pushing his way out of the entrance.

He approaches the dark car and frowns at it. It’s old and caked with mud, and Henri gets the sense that the guard didn’t care much for upkeep. He’d even left the windows down. Henri’s mouth quirks as he sticks an arm in and unlocks it, remembering Dega curled against his chest and joking about Henri’s possible history with vehicle theft.

 _I’ll have to tell him,_ he thinks as he sits in the driver’s seat and hunts for keys. _He’ll think it's funny._

Henri’s amusement sizzles out when he realizes that the guard must have the keys on him. He stares out through the murky windshield and into the dark and wonders if he has the willpower to pilfer a dead body.

Dega probably wouldn’t find that part very funny.

“Shit,” Henri mutters. He sits in the car for several minutes and considers ditching the whole thing--Celier, the corpse, the restaurant and it’s unfriendly owner--but then he remembers that Julot’s on his way. He curses again and gets out of the car. He circles around the side of the building and feels his skin break out in gooseflesh as he crouches beside the wrapped body. He holds his breath and pushes the blanket aside. He quickly rummages through the guard’s pockets and lets his mind wander to avoid facing the reality of what he’s doing; he thinks of the Dega begrudgingly agreeing to a dog and allows himself to consider what breed Dega might like best, and he keeps that warm thought at the forefront of his mind as he closes his hand over the keys and rewraps the body, and then he stalks across the yard before he can vomit up the chicken he’d inhaled earlier.

He makes it back to the car and breaks out into a cold sweat. He anchors his thoughts on Dega and the prospect of a lazy hound dog in front of a fireplace as he turns the key in the ignition and slowly rolls the vehicle through the yard. He pulls it as far into the treeline as he can without hitting anything and hopes that that will be good enough--it definitely can’t be seen from the road out front, but it wouldn’t be hard to spot if someone wandered into the back.

 _Nothing for it,_ he tells himself. He climbs out of the driver’s seat and brings the keys with him. He deposits them on a counter in the kitchen as he re-enters the restaurant from the back, and he raises his eyebrows in surprise to find Celier on his knees and rubbing a water-logged rag over the remnants of the bloodstain on the floor. It’s likely a lost cause, but some part of him appreciates that Celier is trying. 

He moves through the room and Celier glances up, looking expectant, but Henri turns his face away and crumples back down into a chair. He’s not in the mood to talk. He leans his elbows on the sticky table and then presses his forehead into his palms, uncaring of the filth he’s touched with them. Celier says nothing. Henri tunes out the wet _squelch_ of the rag sweeping through water. 

He startles awake what could be minutes or hours later, heart pounding at the sound of a car door slamming. He looks around for Celier but finds himself alone. Disoriented, he stares down at the obvious remainder of the stain and doesn’t even think to run before the door slams open and Julot strides in like he owns the place.

Henri’s world tilts for a moment, and his relief is so intense that he nearly can’t push himself to his feet. But he does. Julot shouts out a too-loud, “Papi!” and throws his arms around Henri to thump him on the back.

“Julot,” Henri greets once the smaller man has released him and stepped back, but he can’t think of what to follow that up with. _It’s good to see you_ , or perhaps, _we killed an innocent man tonight._ He settles on, “it's about time.”

Julot squawks out his familiar laugh and slaps him fondly on the arm. “Good to see you too, you big bastard. Where’s Dega?”

Henri’s jaw clicks shut. He goes still and tries to find the words, and Julot misreads the pain in his face.

“Shit. Is he dead?”

“No,” Henri snaps. “He’s not dead.”

“Okay--”

“He’s in Paris,” Henri continues after a deep breath. “It’s a long story.”

Julot nods and pops his mouth open and licks at his teeth, and Henri takes comfort in the strange but familiar sight. Julot never could keep his mouth shut, not even when he had nothing to say.

“I came with someone else.”

“Yeah? Who?”

“Name’s Celier. Ex-navy.”

“Friend of yours?”

Henri frowns. Julot’s eyes sharpen appraisingly, but the man in question bursts in through the kitchen before he has the chance to puzzle Henri’s hesitation out. Celier goes stiff and narrows his eyes at the sight of a stranger.

“Who the fuck is this?”

“This is Julot--”

“Who the fuck are you?” Julot interrupts loudly, caught somewhere between pissed off and amused.

Celier’s lips twist and Henri decides to intervene before things go too far--Julot doesn’t know about the guard, about the knife, and Henri doesn’t trust Celier’s temper anymore. He quickly makes the formal introductions, and Adrián storms in after Celier at the end. He politely waits for Henri to finish before pointing an accusing finger at Julot.

“You!” he shouts. “Look what they did.” He gestures at the damp stain on the floor, gleaming dark against the wood, and Julot sticks his tongue out and stares at it without comprehension.

“What?”

“They killed a man!”

Julot whips his head up to stare at Henri, who bristles at being included in the crime. He grits his teeth and shakes his head, and then he’s relieved to see something like understanding in Julot’s eyes.

“He was a guard,” Celier grunts, said in the same way someone might say _filthy rat_. “We did what we had to do. Right, Papi?”

Henri stares at him with a dull sort of disbelief but he can’t argue--he’d said as much earlier that night. He can’t admit to it being a placation. 

“I’ve called Marcel,” Adrián declares.

Henri and Celier turn to him, alarmed at the involvement of a stranger, but Julot shouts out a laugh.

“Who is that?” Henri asks beneath his breath, and Julot smiles with his teeth.

“Pig farmer.”

“What?”

“He provides Adrián with all of his pork.” 

Henri glances at Adrián, who frowns at him with great dislike. “Okay--”

Julot leans in close and winks at him. “Don’t worry about it.” He straightens and then approaches Adrián with exaggerated swagger.

Henri watches as Adrián reluctantly takes Julot’s hand and accepts a few enthusiastic pumps. He waits as they have a quiet conversation, and he feels nearly angry with curiosity by the time Julot climbs up to sit his ass on the bartop and swing his legs like a little kid. He notices Henri’s stare and runs his tongue over his teeth again as Adrián retreats back into the kitchen.

Henri slowly approaches the bar, taking note of Celier sinking down to sit at a table in the middle of the room. He’s planted himself halfway to the door. Henri feels a too-familiar prickle of unease, uncertain if he means to block someone from entering or them from leaving. He figures it’s probably a bit of both. 

He leans against the bar next to Julot and lets himself wonder if it’s time to sever his deal with Celier. He begins preparing a _we should go our separate ways_ speech in his head but doesn’t get very far.

“Adrián’s not so bad, huh?” Julot says. He looks around the depressing interior of the restaurant. “Has some sort of head injury and he’s kind of an asshole. And he has shit choice in decorations but--”

“How did you meet him?” Henri interrupts, not interested in a decor review. 

“How do you think?” Julot shoots back playfully.

“When you escaped.” Henri relaxes against the counter. Julot’s nonchalance and good cheer is a startling relief after having nothing but Celier’s company for three days.

“Ding ding,” Julot says, slapping the bartop for emphasis. “Got it in one.”

Henri smiles despite himself. “Why the hell did he let a dirty little felon like you in?”

“His kid was killed a few years ago. Tried to tell a group of drunk ass guards to settle down. They beat the shit out of him and then left without paying.”

Henri winces. “How old?”

“Think he was like fourteen. Anyway, the kid died in the hospital. No wonder, in a country like this, right? Well, after that, the guy naturally isn’t much of a fan of those pricks. Saw my outfit and knew where I’d come from. Took me in and fed me. So I once I got some sleep and a beer in me I went into town and busted into the nicest house I could find, and brought him some goodies as a thank-you.”

Henri snorts. “Shit, Julot. Not one to lie low, huh?”

“What do you think?” Julot laughs and shrugs. “Figured he could use the money--he wants to move his restaurant but he’s broke. And no fucking wonder, right? Who the hell comes here except for guards. Shit location.”

“Guards and escapees,” Henri jokes, which earns him another laugh.

“You got it.”

Celier makes a noise of contempt from across the room. Henri ignores him, but he doesn’t miss the way Julot’s dark eyes drift to the other man and narrow lazily.

“What’s your deal?” he asks, clucking his tongue. “You here five minutes and you stab some guy? The fuck is wrong with you.”

Henri doesn’t need to look to know that Celier’s puffing up with indignation.

“He was a guard. He recognized us.”

“What, in those clothes?” Julot challenges.

Henri thinks of the way that the guard’s eyes had almost immediately wandered to his covered tattoo. “He did,” he admits, hoping his agreement will pacify Celier. “He definitely recognized me, anyway.”

Julot quiets down at that, trusting him, and Henri feels a painful pang of fondness. It’s somehow closely followed by the wish that Dega was with them. 

“Where’s he now?”

“Getting cold out back,” Celier replies nonchalantly, sounding near-proud. But he’s talking to a man that had stabbed not one but _two_ guards on his second day at the prison and Julot is distinctly unimpressed. “We’ll need to bury or burn him.”

“Nah,” Julot argues, leaning back to brace himself against the bartop. “Adrián has that handled, remember?”

“A pig farm,” Henri says slowly. He feels his stomach turn with realization. “Julot--”

“Fucked up, right?”

“What?” Celier demands.

Henri licks his cracked lips and fights a wave of surreality. He looks at Celier and takes a breath. “They’re going to feed the body to hogs.”

Celier’s face goes slack with surprise. Then he leans back and laughs.

✧ ✧ ✧

It’s either very late or very early by the time the pig farmer arrives. Julot cuts out of a story about a Colombian whore and a bar of chocolate and they listen as the car door slams shut, and then they stare in silence as a man nearly twice Henri’s build half-opens and cautiously peeks around the door.

“Marcel,” Julot hoots out in greeting. 

The farmer smiles and slips in the rest of the way, and then takes a moment to study the two strangers as Julot slides off of the bar and shakes his hand with way too much enthusiasm for the middle of the night.

“Adrián?”

“Sleeping snug as a bug in his bed upstairs,” Julot answers breezily. “We don’t need his help.”

Marcel smiles with his teeth and Henri notices that one of his canines is missing. “As if he would help even if he were awake!”

Julot laughs good-naturedly and then gestures at Henri. “Papi,” he introduces warmly. He throws a dismissive hand toward Celier. “And his friend.”

“Celier,” Henri provides before Celier can get angry and mouth off. He glances over in time to see the ex-sailor making a valiant attempt at getting his temper under control. 

Marcel nods at them and then puts his meaty hands on his hips. “So. Where is our problem?”

“Out back,” Henri says quietly, feeling pity for the dead man stir in his gut at the thought of what will come next. “Wrapped in a blanket behind the truck.”

The farmer grunts out a satisfied noise. “Is that his car outside?”

“No,” Henri answers. “His is in the back, too. Didn’t want anyone to see it.”

“Yeah, that piece of shit out front is mine,” Julot laughs. “Sort of.”

“Sort of?” Marcel asks.

“You stole it?” Henri cuts in, and he doesn’t feel one lick of surprise when Julot throws him a pleased smile and bats his eyelashes.

“You know me so well, Papi. And it’s going to be Adrián’s piece of shit now. I said he could have it for his troubles.”

Celier makes an impatient noise. “Are we getting on with this or not? How far are your pigs?”

“About an hour away,” Marcel says. Henri appreciates that he doesn’t react to Celier’s tone. “I have a truck. You two can load our dead friend in the back and sit tight with him. Julot, you will be up front with me.”

Julot sends Henri a mock-apologetic shrug and doesn’t argue with that. Henri feels his stomach sink at the thought of sitting in the back of a truck with a corpse for the better part of an hour. 

“Adrián says that you will stay and help out with my business, afterward. In return for _my_ help,” Marcel informs them.

Henri hesitates, looking between Julot and Celier, but if they have any particular feelings about the arrangement they don’t show it. He thinks of Dega telling him to lie low, to keep out of sight. What better place to hide than a remote slaughterhouse?

“Right,” he mutters, and then shakes off his reservations and approaches Marcel to shake his hand. “Thank you,” he says, and Marcel squeezes his fingers and smiles.

“I think you will like it,” the farmer shares, “there’s a little house on the property. Used to be servant quarters, back before I bought the place. Me and my boys do all of our own work. Or,” he laughs, “we did until tonight.”

“Yeah yeah,” Julot says, flapping a hand. “You’ll get your slave labor out of us. Now, can we hurry the fuck up please? I want to sleep at some point tonight.”

Celier’s chair scraps across the floor as he rises, but Henri avoids his gaze as they move through the restaurant and out the back. Celier leads the way to the guard’s temporary resting place and Henri nearly balks at the thought of touching the corpse again. Marcel peers down at the bundled figure in the moonlight as though to confirm it’s a human body, and then nods.

“Smells like shit. Dead things always crap themselves,” he declares. “I will bring my truck around to the side. I am the solution, not the author of this problem, so you will bring the body to the car.”

Julot gives him a mock salute. Henri turns to stare at Celier but can’t make out his expression in the near-dark, but he can see when Celier nods. Henri takes in a lungful of humid night air, ignoring the reek of feces and urine, and then stoops to lift the guard’s feet. Celier lifts the shoulders and they stumble with their stiff-limbed burden across the yard. Julot acts as a completely unnecessary supervisor, joking about form and posture and _put your back into it, Papi!_

He’s panting and sweating through his shirt by the time they stagger into Marcel’s headlights. Henri blinks against the brilliance and sidesteps the car with Celier, proceeding to the back of it until Celier’s gaunt face is bathed in the red glow of the taillights. They huff and heave the body into the bed of the truck.

“Good job, boys,” Julot cracks.

Henri wipes a stream of sweat from his forehead and pants, quietly cursing South America and it’s never-ending warmth. Julot laughs, slaps him on the shoulder, and then climbs into the passenger seat. Henri watches as Celier ambles up into the back and vaguely realizes that it’s too late to deliver his _let’s go our separate ways_ speech now.

Henri almost can’t bring himself to get into the truck. He stares at the flicker of insects bumbling against the taillights and thinks of a quiet patio, of morning coffee and Dega’s rumble of a voice complaining about something pleasantly insignificant. He thinks of the restaurant’s cherry-red door and knows he’ll have to tell Dega he’s changed his mind--their home will have a blue one, or maybe a green one. But not red.

He climbs into the truckbed and elects to stare up at the stars instead of the body bundled beside him.

✧ ✧ ✧

They drive for what seems like a long time, and the weapon stashed into the back of Celier’s hemline hangs heavily on his mind. He waits until the weight of it becomes unbearable. 

“The knife,” Henri says, and he pauses to give gravity to the words, “you should ditch it.”

Celier’s expression is dark and fathomless across the guard’s body. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and when he does speak it’s with nothing less than derision. 

“Why? What do you think I’m going to do with it, Papi?”

Henri’s pretty sure that Celier can sense his apprehension about that exact question but he plays it cool. “You want to get caught with it in the back of your pants? With this guy’s blood on it?”

There’s a pregnant hesitation. Celier clearly hadn’t thought of that. 

“I get it,” Henri says as quietly as he can over the roar of the old truck. “We can’t trust this Marcel, we don’t know anything about him.” That’s not actually the issue, but Henri’s pretty sure he can swing Celier back to his side with a ‘it’s us against him’ mindset. “But we can get another weapon. And even if not--we can take him, especially with Julot’s help.”

Celier scoffs at the mention of Henri’s friend. “And if I don’t trust your Julot any more than the pig farmer?”

Henri considers that for a moment. “He’s the only reason either one of us are out of that goddamn prison.” Celier opens his mouth to argue but Henri presses on. “I trust him, which means you should, too. But if you don’t trust me just say the word. We’ll pull over and let you out.”

Silence settles between them, broken only by the hum of the engine and the crunch of compacted dirt beneath the wheels. 

“I trust you,” Celier says at last. 

His begrudging tone is less than convincing, but it’s good enough. “Then toss the knife,” Henri suggests.

Celier studies him in the moonlight, and Henri feels the scrutiny like a rope around his neck. Then Celier shrugs, brandishes the knife, and twists his arm back. His arm swings and Henri watches as the blade flashes once before disappearing into the brush.

Henri relaxes. He turns and nods companionably at Celier, who nods back.

They sit in silence for the rest of the drive. Henri’s anxiety ramps up as they pull off of the main road and crawl along a narrower one, and he has to duck to keep from being slapped in the face with stray leaves and palm fronds. He feels his stomach tremble as the stench of animal muck arrives, and he turns to stare over the hood of the truck as the treeline opens up and hog farm comes into view. It sits dark and ominous before him, and he tries to avoid thinking about what comes next. 

They pass several empty pens and two long, low buildings that Henri presumes houses the pigs at night. The truck rolls to a stop. Julot leaps out of the passenger seat and circles around to the back.

“Wake up, ladies,” he barks, slapping the car. “Time to get to work!”

Henri shoots him an unimpressed look, but Julot is expectedly unfazed. Henri mutters to Celier and then they lift and heft the guard’s corpse over the back of the truckbed. Julot jumps back a step as the corpse tumbles to the ground.

“Hurry up,” Marcel says as he circles around and watches Henri and Celier climb over the side of the car. “This way.”

Julot takes up the rear as Henri and Celier once again bear the body between them, and Henri’s arms are quaking with exhaustion by the time they stumble into one of the animal barns and deposit the dead man at Marcel’s feet. The farmer goes for a lightswitch and the barn flickers into amber clarity. Henri blinks the light from his dry eyes and waits as Marcel unwraps the blanket and tilts his head, then grumbles and retreats into a small room.

Henri takes a moment to pant and stare at the line of pig pens that take up most of the building. The hogs are noisy, roused and curious about the commotion, and Henri finds dozens of pairs of beady black eyes watching him back. He thinks of them gnawing on the body and closes his eyes to keep from throwing up, but then all he can focus on is the dissonant rumble of the pigs and the reek of mud and straw and animal filth. 

He hears Marcel approach, but he only opens his eyes at the loud clatter of metal. He feels his chest squeeze tight at the sight of a small axe, a butchering knife, and a carving knife. 

“Fuck,” Julot breathes out. And then he laughs. “This is so fucked up.”

“Cut him up, as small as you can. It will make it easier for the pigs,” Marcel instructs.

Henri glances at Celier, who seems determined despite the ill-looking pallor of his skin and a sheen of sweat across his forehead. Henri jumps when Julot clasps a hand down on his shoulder.

“You okay? Looking a bit green, big guy.”

“I’m fine.” Henri swallows down bile from the back of his throat. “It’s just flesh and blood,” he says, as much to convince himself as the other men in the room.

Celier stoops and picks up the butcher’s blade. “Let’s get this over with.”

Julot gestures at the remaining options and Henri can’t decide which is worse, so he grabs what’s closest, but when he hefts the carving knife in his hand he wonders if he can really do it.

“No different than a pig,” Marcel says like he’s done this before. “No need to skin him, though. Or gut him. Just cut around the joints and then,” Marcel pauses to make a chopping motion with his hands. 

Henri shudders. Julot’s no longer smiling--he blanches and looks uncertain for the first time that night. Celier licks his lips and steps forward, and then he crouches and stares down at the body like he’s not sure where to begin.

“The feet,” Marcel suggests as he lights a cigarette. “And the hands. Then work your way in.”

Celier half-shrugs to himself, then takes a deep breath. He then cuts the guard’s clothing until it can be ripped off and Henri sways violently as Celier makes the first cut to the man’s left ankle.

✧ ✧ ✧

It’s gruesome work. Exhaustion is the only thing that gets Henri through it. He’s too tired to think too hard about the horror of what they’re doing. Celier and Julot take turns with the axe while Marcel burns the clothes outside, and when the farmer returns he never once shuts up. He offers tips and suggestions, laughs and smokes cigarette after cigarette until Henri’s certain he’ll never be able to disassociate the smell of tobacco smoke with blood and shit. He had helped with carving but he doesn’t offer to take a turn at chopping up the body, and he pretends it's all a bad dream but he knows he’ll never forget, just as he knows that he’ll never forgive Celier.

Marcel stubs out a cigarette and lights another. Henri’s lost track of how many he’s gone through. He tries to tune the hog farmer out as he rambles about having tried to train his pigs to eat a man alive.

“Did not work out,” Marcel grunts. “They were too skittish. Even when I starved them the screaming frightened them off. Even when I gagged the man!”

Henri wanders outside and sits in the grass and stares up at the stars once it’s over. He can hear the others talking as they heft various parts of the corpse into the pens, and then he can hear the pigs. They get louder but there isn’t any one particular sound that upsets him; he’s too far away to hear if they’re eating the man or not, but he unwillingly pictures it and then rolls onto his side and throws up. 

“Fuck,” he gasps. He coughs and rubs his mouth with the back of his arm afterward--his hands are still tacky with blood and filth. He vomits again, choking on thin bile and squeezing his eyes shut as his stomach convulses. 

He rises and staggers away from his mess once his belly is empty.

Marcel leads Julot and Celier out to him, and then shows them the workers’ building like he’s giving a grand tour.

It’s small, and it’s dirty, but there’s a roof and walls and only a handful of bugs flittering around inside. 

“Only two rooms,” Julot observes after Marcel leaves. 

Celier glances at Henri and then stalks into one of the tiny bedrooms without a word. Henri feels a headache bloom between his temples as he tries to resist the urge to drag Celier back out and either insist they have a reasonable discussion about it or punch him in the face. He does neither. He glances at a wilted mattress in the corner of the main room but Julot cracks a quip about being a team player and drops himself down onto it before Henri can offer.

Henri throws him a grateful look and then staggers into the other bedroom. There’s no door, and it’s so small that he could probably touch any two walls at the same time if he tries, but he’s nearly overcome with relief as he sits on the edge of the lumpy mattress and closes his eyes.

✧ ✧ ✧

Henri wakes up to pitch black and something soft beneath his head. It takes him a moment to place himself in time, and it’s only when he shifts and feels how stiff his clothes are that he remembers that they’re caked in a dead man’s blood. A faint buzzing rings in his ears as he tries to fight his way away from the memory. 

Henri sits up and takes a deep breath. He’s desperately thirsty, and that simple need helps to ground him as he rises and seeks out the wall with tentative fingertips. He feels his way into the main area and slowly passes Celier’s room, continuing until he stumbles into the counter he’d glimpsed when they’d entered. It can’t quite be called a kitchen, but it has a sink and Henri turns it on and can only stand to scrub his filthy hands for a few seconds before succumbing to thirst and drinking from his cupped palms.

He fills his aching stomach with water and then rubs his soaking hands along his face and the back of his neck. He pauses, mind heavy with exhaustion and indecision, and then strips off his shirt and pants. He stands in his undergarments and then wipes himself down as well as he can without making a mess.

Not satisfied but knowing he can’t do any better until morning, Henri kicks his discarded clothes into what he thinks is the corner of the common room and then stumbles his way to the front door. He quietly creeps outside and stands in the waning starlight. The moon has already set and he doesn’t doubt that dawn will come in an hour or two, and he knows that he should go back to bed but he needs to stand under the dark sky and breathe in the night air for just a little longer.

He gazes around at nothing and thinks about Dega. He wonders what he’ll think of what Henri’s done but the voice in the back of his heart is quiet and offers no counsel this time. 

_He’ll understand,_ Henri thinks, but a pressure builds in the back of his skull. Maybe Dega won’t understand--maybe he’ll say that Henri should have been smart enough to walk away. Maybe he’ll be angry--he’d warned Henri about Celier, but Henri had brushed him off. 

Henri’s heart sinks, but then he feels a familiar resolution fill his chest. _I’ll change his mind,_ he thinks, rallying every shred of stubbornness. _I’ll make him see._

He’s come too far to let a little thing like body dismemberment come between them.

Staring out at the dark, he thinks of the trust in Dega’s eyes, of the way he’d sometimes tasted like oranges, of the inked butterfly he’d hidden for Henri to find and--

“Shit,” Henri breathes out. 

He turns and rushes back into the building, tripping over someone’s boots and cursing too loudly for the middle of the night. Julot mutters something from the other side of the room but Henri ignores him. He feels around for his discarded clothes and then sinks to his knees. He digs the napkin from one pocket and the francs from the other and doesn’t think too hard about his priorities, about which he had sought out first. He clutches both bundles in his hands and wonders if the blood has soaked through and stained them, too; running his fingers over the napkin, he doesn’t think so--the material would probably be tacky and stiff. It’s harder to tell with the francs, but that doesn’t much matter. Few men would blink at a thing like that in a place like this.

Exhaling heavily, Henri stands and wanders blindly back to his room. He tucks the francs under the mattress and then curls up on top of it, facing the wall with the napkin held tight in one fist. 

He closes his eyes and falls asleep to the first lilting notes of birdsong.

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis rises feeling empty with exhaustion. Despite Cormier’s attempt at reassurance it had been impossible to relax with Dumont trailing him like a sulking dog. Just the sight of him had made Louis dizzy with fury, but he couldn’t deny that having a new shadow had had the desired effect--no one had touched him, though he’d felt their curious eyes on him from the moment they’d left the kitchens to the moment they’d walked into Louis’ barrack.

Louis imagines that they’d made quite a sight. Dumont, sporting a black eye and a distinct limp in his right knee, following after Louis, who had been red-faced with anger.

He’d nearly lashed out when Dumont had settled into Papi’s old spot beside him on the concrete, but he understands the logic of it. If Dumont is meant to protect him, it only makes sense to keep him close, and the empty spot beside him was an open invitation for trouble. But he had felt ill with rage all the same, and he’d laid on his back and scowled at the ceiling for the better part of the night, not stupid enough to take off his glasses or risk falling asleep next to a man who had gleefully taken part in his assault.

Dumont hadn’t tried to touch him though--he’d barely even made eye contact. Whatever threats Cormier had followed the black-eye up with had been enough to convince Dumont to take his role as Louis’ guardian seriously. It should have made it easier, but it hadn’t. Louis had half-hoped Dumont _would_ try something if only to give him an excuse to practice a punch or make good use of his sharp teeth again.

He’d drifted in and out of a shallow sleep toward dawn, after his thoughts had swept from Dumont to El Caiman to Papi. He couldn’t quite admit it to himself, but it had become harder and harder to pretend like Papi must be safe, that he must have made it. But Louis did his best, and when he wakes to Dumont shuffling sleepily beside him he has to blink visions of Papi and Celier alone in the jungle from his eyes.

He licks his lips and sits up, shooting Dumont one hateful look before ignoring him entirely. He’s left with his thoughts until the turnkey arrives, but it hurts to think of Papillon, so he casts his thoughts out and and finds himself loitering in the memory of Guibert turning on his heel and abandoning him to Cormier. He’d seen. Louis knows for certain that he’d seen. He’d seen and he’d walked away, armed with his assumptions about what Cormier had already done to him. Guibert’s mistaken, Cormier’s only interest in Louis is ensuring that he doesn’t step out of line, but--

His throat closes up, squeezing down a hot rush of bile at the realization that Guibert would have let it happen, if that had been the case. _He hates me that much,_ he thinks. The betrayal cuts at something inside of him and he desperately tries to rationalize it all, but he’s left with the ugly truth--Guibert had accepted that sexual assault was a reasonable punishment for Louis’ deception. 

Louis’ intestines curl into a chilly knot, and when he swallows it feels like there’s cotton caught in his throat.

His anguish hardens into animosity by the time the turnkey arrives and frees them from the concrete. His chest feels hollow despite the way his heartbeat slams against his ribs, and he can barely restrain himself from screaming at a handful of other men when they turn to regard him with their usual assessment. They’re curious at this new turn of events and it makes him feel like an unlucky character in a play--or worse, a goldfish in a glass bowl. He bristles at the scrutiny and keeps his head high as he blows past Dumont and heads for the door. He hears Dumont curse and stumble after him, still in the process of tying his shoelaces.

Louis trots down the stairs and half expects to find Cormier waiting to escort him to the kitchens, but the only familiar face he finds is an even less welcome sight. The blue-eyed man that had harassed him in the cafeteria laughs out a cloud of smoke at something another inmate says. He’s facing the wrong way, he hasn’t seen Louis yet, but all it will take is one glance. 

Cormier’s warning rings in his head-- _you wounded a man’s pride, don’t be caught alone._

But Louis isn’t alone. 

A terrible idea swells in his head like spilled ink. Papillon would berate him for the thought itself, but Papi isn’t here and Louis is so angry he can barely contain the tremor in his hands. He wants violence. And he abruptly knows how to slake that thirst without raising a finger. 

He ignores Dumont as he arrives at the bottom of the stairs. Louis catches his stare from the corner of his eye but ignores it, just as he ignores Dumont’s grumble of confusion over why Louis stopped walking.

Louis waits until the blue-eyed bastard from the cafeteria glances over. He deliberately makes eye contact with the man, and then curls his lip in an exaggerated sneer. It’s as simple as it is effective--Louis has always been good at saying _fuck you_ without saying a word, because for as often as he’s been told he has a pretty face he’s been told it can be a hateable one.

The reaction is immediate. It’s like watching something catch fire and Louis is nearly hypnotized by how easy it is to elicit such skin-crawling rage. The man swears and throws his cigarette down and shoves off of the wall, and Dumont looks up to sputter in surprise when he marches toward them with his fists curled. Dumont takes a step to block the pissed off inmate and earns a hard fist to the mouth for his effort. Louis feels a pinch of genuine concern when the inmate tries to blow past and get at him, but Dumont grabs the man’s shoulder and swings back and then all Louis has to do is watch as they scream and exchange sloppy blows.

The fight is fierce but brief--Dumont is stronger than Louis expected, but his bewilderment is no match for his opponent’s rabid fury. The other man slams his head forward and catches Dumont on the jaw. Dumont howls and goes down hard, clutching his chin and writhing as the man follows that up with a quick kick to the stomach. Dumont stutters out a groan and Louis tilts his head and passively observes Dumont spit out slimy, pink saliva. The man shouts and then kicks Dumont again and Dumont starts to beg in garbled moans.

A whistle shrieks and Louis takes a polite step back as a guard lurches past him. Another quickly arrives and it takes both of them to get the blue-eyed convict on the ground, and even then he tries to buck them off. A baton comes out and strikes the man across the back of the head and the courtyard falls into a near hush as he hisses out in pain. The baton rises and falls again, and then the man falls silent.

Dumont kicks out and makes a gurgling sound. It’s muffled, as his hands still cupping his face, but it may as well be music to Louis’ ears. 

Satisfied, he turns and walks away. He doesn’t hurry but he still makes it to the kitchens before Cormier, so he calmly organizes the utensils and tools that had dried overnight and then mops the floor.

He barely looks up when Cormier arrives.

“How was your night?” Cormier asks, obscenely smug, and Louis assumes that means that he either hasn’t heard about the fight or that he doesn’t give a shit about it. 

“Fine, thank you,” he retorts with mock-cheer.

“I hope it was better than your morning. You have a habit of attracting trouble, Mr. Dega.”

So he has heard. Louis slows the long swipes of the mop and leans against the handle, then offers Cormier a little shrug. “You were right,” he says with feigned surprise. “That man was quite angry.”

The side of Cormier’s mouth twists up. It would be a smile, if only Cormier were capable of one. “Proud of yourself for that, aren’t you?”

Louis goes back to mopping.

Cormier sits in a wobbly chair and resumes his role of supervisor, throwing out jabs and doing little else throughout the morning. Louis allows the remarks to bounce off of him, gorged and sated on the memory of Dumont’s beating and the other convict’s well-deserved concussion.

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis takes an apple from the stash of fresh food reserved for the guards’ lunch without asking around midday. He bites into it as Cormier glares and eats his way through a cold can of beans and a tin of apricots, but Louis feels immune to ill-tempered looks at this point. He chews and his thoughts coil back to Guibert in the stretch of silence. Resentment grabs him tight as the memory of the doctor’s betrayal fills his head with thorns, and he knows that he can’t leave it at that--he has to talk to Guibert. 

He abruptly discards his half-eaten apple and announces that he has to use the lavatory, to which Cormier rolls his eyes and tells him to hurry the fuck up. 

Louis does walk quickly, but he makes a beeline for the infirmary instead of the common bathroom. He hasn’t decided if he’s going to apologize or confront Guibert yet, but he thinks he’ll be able to make up his mind easily enough once he sees the doctor’s face. He hopes he’ll find regret there, or shame at the very least.

He’s surprised to find an unfamiliar guard stationed at the hospital gate and he hesitates before approaching. The guard immediately takes notice of him and stiffens, eyeing him warily, but he’s young and clearly inexperienced and he’s no match for Louis’ easy charm. 

“Good afternoon,” he greets, and tries not to feel too amused at how powerful good manners can be in a place like this. The guard gawks at him and returns the words in a confused mumble. Louis infuses as much cheer and confidence into his voice as he can muster, knowing that to be key to getting what he wants. “Would you be so kind as to fetch the doctor for me?”

The guard blinks, glances over his shoulder at the infirmary, and then turns back to stare owlishly. Louis only needs to smile and raise his eyebrows expectantly for the young man to turn on his heel and do as he’s asked, and Louis tries not to feel too proud of the victory. He stares up at the infirmary windows and feels vaguely happy for Bordeaux; he knows how bored he had been at the hospital, and he hopes that the odd man had gotten his wish for a more lively station.

His good mood fades when the young guard returns alone and aims a heavy frown at him. he stops on the other side of the gate and regards Louis with great suspicion.

“Guibert says you’re not allowed to be here.”

Louis’ stomach sinks. He hadn’t anticipated that the doctor would refuse to see him. His desire to make peace with the man abruptly evaporates, leaving him shaky with anger again. He throws a dark glance up at the windows once more, hoping that Guibert is watching, but they’re pointedly empty. For one insane moment Louis considers shouting but the impulse passes in a heartbeat. He’s not going to embarrass himself, not for a man like Guibert. A man that would knowingly turn his back and walk away from someone in need, someone cornered by a _presumed rapist_.

He lowers his eyes to the guard. He considers asking about where Bordeaux has been relocated, but he doesn’t even know Bordeaux’s real name and the question would likely only make him look stranger, more suspicious.

“Well. Thank you for trying,” Louis says around his teeth, feeling his face flush with agitation. “I appreciate it.”

The guard’s mouth falls open and then shuts again, and his face screws up like he had been about to say ‘you’re welcome’ before remembering that he’s speaking to a lowly convict. 

Louis turns and stalks away from the hospital before he loses his temper. He wanders for a bit, stalling until he has to return to Cormier, but when he finally makes his way back to the kitchens he finds a different guard waiting for him. Louis slows his pace, but the guard turns and spots him all the same. Louis is reasonably certain that it’s the same young man that had escorted him to the deputy warden, and his suspicion is confirmed when the guard marches over and informs him that he’s to follow to the administration wing. 

Louis nods, and he only risks one glance toward the kitchens before trailing after the guard. He follows him through the courtyard and past the guillotine and wonders if this man is Brioulet’s personal assistant, if deputy wardens even have such a thing. He thinks of Bordeaux and wishes that he’d been his escort instead.

“No shift rotation for you?” Louis asks politely, reminded of the recent change and hoping to entice the man into small talk, but the guard only turns to stare without comprehension for a moment before turning away again. 

Louis frowns but doesn’t press the issue, and he walks in silence until he’s brought before Brioulet’s door for the second time that week. He clenches his teeth, remembering the hard press of the deputy warden’s fingers on his neck, and he reminds himself to control his tongue. 

The guard knocks and when Brioulet swings the door open Louis notes that the man doesn’t look any less angry than he had the first time. But he does seem more subdued, more in control, and Louis allows himself to hope that he’ll get through this conversation without being touched. 

Brioulet dismisses the young guard with a wave of his hand and then points at the chair opposite the desk. Louis obediently sits as Brioulet closes the door and circles to his own seat. 

“Mr. Dega.”

Louis inclines his head with more respect than Brioulet deserves.

“Despite my personal feelings on the matter, the warden has signed off on your appeal.” Brioulet does a convincing job of sounding more disappointed than pissed off, though his eyes narrow when Louis slouches back into the chair with relief. “You are to review these documents and sign your name to them.”

Brioulet slides a packet of pristine white paper across the desk and Louis takes them with great interest. He reads carefully, suspicious and wanting to be certain of what he’s applying his signature to, but the documents seem straightforward enough--his information, the circumstances of his arrest, the terms of his appeal. The only thing that catches his attention is the mandate that he’s to be released into protective custody until he lands in France. He understands that _protective custody_ translates into _Castili’s people_ , and he wonders what the warden and deputy warden make of it. He glances up to find Brioulet attempting to glare a hole into the far wall. 

“What is my release date?” Louis asks quietly. “It doesn’t specify.”

Brioulet turns to him with something like resignation. “Today.”

Louis’ throat squeezes with surprise. _Thank God,_ he thinks, realizing that he’d been dreading facing Papi’s empty spot again that night. He has no doubt that Dumont will be in the infirmary overnight and he’d been preparing for the worst, but--

“I wouldn’t get too excited,” Brioulet warns.

Louis tries to control his apprehension, but he doesn’t doubt it filters through--he can hear it in his own voice when he asks, “what do you mean?”

Brioulet tosses a pen carelessly across the desk and leans back in his chair, regarding Louis with the same contempt as last time. “You’ll be back.” The deputy warden smiles, and it’s as ugly a thing as Louis has seen on an otherwise attractive man’s face. “Maybe not back in French Guiana. But you’re a criminal. You’re dirty, Mr. Dega, and I doubt that you’ll be able to stay out of prison for long.”

Anger crashes through Louis faster than the fear that Brioulet may be right. “You’re wrong,” he says, and Brioulet’s eyes widen at the audacity. Louis straightens his back and sinks his teeth into self-righteousness. He gestures at the papers on the desk. “I’ve done nothing wrong. I deserve my freedom.” It’s not true, not exactly, but he’s so sick of being spoken down to that it hardly matters. 

An inch of doubt twitches across Brioulet’s face and Louis seizes onto it. He keeps his eyes steady and he makes his second terrible decision of the day in a heartbeat.

“My innocence has been proven and you have no right to speak to me like that.” Louis carries on quickly, ignoring the flash of resentment in Brioulet’s face. “You have a guard running illicit substances through the kitchens and you’re so fixated on me that you can’t even see it.”

Silence settles into the room like a lumbering predator. Brioulet’s lips part and Louis watches as his jaw shifts with an attempt to bite out the words to question him. 

Louis decides to press his advantage. “I’ve seen it myself. The kitchen staffer, the large man with black hair, he received a crate of flour from a guard. Only it wasn’t just flour inside. He caught me watching and he threatened my life.” Louis rolls his sleeve up to show off a row of plum smudges that mar his forearm. 

Brioulet’s brow drops so low that it very nearly obscures his eyes. He leans in closer and frowns at the evidence of violence. The fact that the bruises have been made by large fingers is impossible to ignore. Louis grits his teeth to chew down a smile, hoping that Cormier will come to regret laying his hands on him.

“When was this?”

Louis relaxes a fraction at the change in Brioulet’s tone. “Yesterday.”

Brioulet raises his eyes from the bruises. Louis has no trouble meeting the challenge in his gaze. _Believe it,_ he wills, feeling his shoulders draw back with growing confidence. _Believe me._

“I can tell you where illegal goods were hidden, but he knows that I saw, and he has most likely moved them in the meantime. You’d be wise to search the entire kitchen, particularly beneath the counters,” Louis says. He knows that he’s pushing now, throwing out advice like that, but Brioulet’s nearly lost in thought and doesn’t seem to have the presence of mind to be pissed off about it. “I don’t know how many inmates and guards are involved--I only know the two for certain.” He licks his lips and waits for Brioulet to process that. “I’m giving you this information in good faith. There’s nothing that I want in return except for the inmate and the guard to be investigated. And for you to keep me alive until my escort out of here today.”

Brioulet says nothing. 

Louis pushes again. “That kitchen staffer--he bragged about putting a man’s eye out. I don’t doubt for a moment that he’ll make good on his promise to kill me if he finds out that I’ve shared this with you. And how would it look to have an innocent man murdered on the day of his release because of a botched investigation?”

“Don’t you dare tell me how to do my job,” Brioulet snaps. 

Louis inclines his head in an insincere display of submission. He waits as Brioulet thinks it over.

“I’ll need to bring this to the warden’s attention,” the Deputy Warden says at last. “Your escort into Cayenne hasn’t arrived. But I suppose I can’t send you back to work. And I won’t bother to ask why you’re in the kitchens instead of the infirmary in the first place.”

Louis calculates his chances. He’s as good as free, Brioulet can’t touch him now, but Brioulet _does_ have the opportunity to work his frustrations out on another deserving convict. Louis is reasonably sure he’ll take the bait. He waits. Brioulet breathes out heavily through his nose.

“You’ll remain here,” Brioulet says at last, tapping his fingers on his desk. “You’ll remain in the administration wing until your escort arrives.”

“Thank you,” Louis says with genuine relief. Brioulet is unmoved by his gratitude but that comes as no surprise.

“If you’re lying to me--”

“I have no reason to lie to you,” Louis argues gently. He uses a voice he frequently employed for nervous buyers. Something soft, something sweet, something humble. “I think you want to do the right thing, the moral thing. I don’t doubt that you’re the right person to expose this terrible business.”

Brioulet isn’t charmed but something in Louis’ bullshit seems to put him at ease. Louis speculates that it’s the opportunity to claim credit for uncovering the operation. He watches as the deputy warden rubs at his mouth and nods, then the other man briskly stands and strides out of the office. Louis turns and stares as Brioulet snaps his fingers at someone down the hall. The same guard dutifully approaches and blinks curiously at Louis as Brioulet gives him a quiet series of orders.

Brioulet turns back to him, and for the first time Louis can’t parse the look in his eyes. “Hurry up and sign,” the deputy warden says without inflection, and then he curls his lip and disappears around the corner.

Louis’ heart kicks up into his throat. The reality has begun to set in. He’s getting out--he never has to set eyes on Cormier or Dumont or any of his enemies again. He’s nearly dizzy with relief and he quickly scans and then scrawls his signature across the series of pages that Brioulet had left for him. He organizes the stack neatly on the desk and then stands. 

He follows the guard down the hallway can’t think of a thing to say when he’s seated at a desk that overlooks the main courtyard and the towering guillotine.

✧ ✧ ✧

Henri wakes with the taste of ash in his mouth and a splitting headache. He stares up at an unfamiliar ceiling and listens to someone boom out a laugh nearby. He inclines his head and slowly comes to understand that Celier and Julot are talking--that they’re getting along, and he wonders if that’s a good thing or not. He can’t make up his mind. But he does know that he’s not going back to sleep. 

Gold slants through the room and he speculates that it’s late into the afternoon, probably edging into evening. He sits up with a groan and realizes that his right hand is still clenched tight around Dega’s napkin. He unfolds it and regards it fondly before tucking it under the mattress with the francs. The room blurs when he stands but rights itself soon enough, and he walks out into the common area and is greeted by two curious sets of eyes.

“Good morning, you lazy bastard,” Julot jokes.

Henri waves a hand at him and goes for the sink. He drinks from his hands and half listens as Celier finishes up some story from his time in the navy before declaring he’s going to demand dinner from Marcel. 

Henri doesn’t bother to glance up as Celier stomps out of the building. He turns off the tap and wipes his mouth, running his fingertips along his considerable scruff. He does his best not to think of a hot shower and a shave, and he turns to find Julot watching him from the mattress in the corner.

“There’s some stale bread,” Julot informs him. “Nothing else here but rat shit.”

“I’ll wait,” Henri says. He makes his way across the room and slides down the wall to sit beside Julot. He feels tired, but sleep and water have left him with a clearer head than he’s had in days. He glances at Julot from the corner of his eye. “Thanks for coming, Julot.”

Julot’s mouth quirks. “Bet you wished you’d risked my half-assed mistake, after I got out.”

Henri scoffs but decides not to deny it. “For a day or two, yeah.” And he definitely had--but now he’s unspeakably glad that he hadn’t. If he’d gone with Julot, Dega would be dead. Or worse. 

“Your new buddy’s an asshole.”

“Sounded like you two were getting along fine.”

“I’m used to dealing with assholes.”

“Celier,” Henri grumbles beneath his breath, half afraid the man in question is listening in from outside the doorway or under a window, “you can’t trust him.”

Julot shrugs. “Never said I did.”

“He took and hid that knife before the guard ever showed up,” Henri says, his voice low and heavy with meaning. Julot’s thick eyebrows slowly rise; he whistles through his teeth but doesn’t comment. “I think he was going to try to rob me.”

“Yeah, probably,” Julot laughs. “What an asshole. You got Dega’s money?”

“What’s left of it.”

Julot nods. “Our mutual friend back in Paris was happy to get some of that. He also says your lady is, and I’m quoting here, ‘the most beautiful woman in all of France’.”

Henri hesitates and manages a one-shouldered shrug when Julot grins at him. “He’s not wrong,” he says after a moment, deciding against saying _she’s not my lady anymore_. “Listen. There are some things Celier doesn’t know. I told him Dega’s lawyer sent you that message, and that he sent more funds for Dega.”

“Okay. Why?”

“I’ll explain later,” Henri hedges, unwilling to risk Celier walking back in on that particular conversation. Julot easily picks up on his unease and doesn’t push it, and Henri feels another rush of affection for him.

“Thanks,” he says again, throat tight. “For coming. For helping us.”

Julot doesn’t seem to need him to clarify that he means _me and Dega_ and not _me and Celier_. He licks his lower teeth and bobs his head and then tells Henri all about a one-legged male prostitute he’d befriended in Cayenne. 

Henri settles in and half-listens, his thoughts wandering across an ocean.

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis sits and watches the sun sink along the grim silhouette of the guillotine and attempts to reorient his mind. Cormier, the prison, the deputy warden--it’s all white noise now. He has to focus on what comes next. He sits with his back straight and combs over his ambitions with intense scrutiny, setting up each step of an increasingly improbable plan with a single-minded intensity. The unknown specter of Castili looms over his head and tempers the soaring sensation of hope, but it doesn’t leave him paralyzed. 

He sits and thinks and keeps his wits despite the mounting pressure, and he’s proud that he’s able to rise with cool confidence when a guard arrives and beckons him impatiently down into the courtyard. He follows quietly and only glances back once as they head for the main gate. He searches the empty windows of the infirmary, half expecting to find Guibert staring solemnly down at him, but he sees nothing but metal bars and the slow sway of curtains. He turns his back on the infirmary, and whatever strength he’s kept in his reserve serves him well--he walks with the dignity of a free man as he’s escorted through the two gates and out along the dirt path. His heart squeezes tight when they turn the corner and he gets his first real glimpse of the road. The black car and two men waiting beside it aren’t worth more than a glance.

The guard says something but Louis misses it. He stares down at the darkening road and searches it as if he expects to find a sign of Papillon, and when he finally turns he finds the guard gone and Castili’s men eyeing him warily.

“You got any weapons on you?”

Louis shakes his head, but the man saunters over and treats him to a rough once-over, just in case. Satisfied that he doesn’t have anything hidden in his clothes, the man grabs his elbow and leads him to the car.

Louis is only a little bit surprised when he’s shoved down into the back seat and handcuffed to the door.

He says nothing. He keeps his eyes glued to the road ahead as one man slides into the seat beside him and the other huddles down into the driver’s side. The man is so large that it’s almost comical to see his hands wrap around the steering wheel, and Louis distantly wonders if Castili has a minimum bulk requirement for his henchmen. 

Every thought flies from his head once the car starts. His stomach twists and reality hits--he’s out. He’s handcuffed to a car and he’s not free but he’s _out_.

He tries to keep from heaving as the vehicle trembles and then crawls forward, picking up speed as they turn onto the main road. Louis inclines his head to the side to watch the prison shrink and then vanish behind dripping trees and deep green. He turns to stare ahead again, throat pinched with emotion, and when he thinks of Papillon he has to dig his fingertips into his thighs to help him to ignore the sudden sting in his eyes.


	18. Dix-huit

They arrive at the airport in Cayenne after sunset. Louis waits politely as they uncuff him from the door handle and warn him against trying to run. He says nothing as he rubs at his sore wrist and stands, staring up at the building as the driver pulls the car away from the curb. His remaining escort has a duffel bag in one hand and takes Louis’ elbow firmly in the other. Louis very nearly tells him not to bother--he has no intention of trying to flee now--but he instead allows himself to be led into the airport without complaint.

He expects to be shoved down into one of the chairs that line the waiting areas but he’s marched to the men’s restroom. It’s overbright and small and Louis feels a headache pulse to life behind his eyes as he watches the man toss the duffel bag on the counter and check the stalls. Satisfied that they’re alone, the man positions himself in front of the door and frowns at Louis.

“Clothes,” he says, pointing at the bag. “Get changed.”

Louis nods slowly and turns toward the counter, but he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and feels a jolt of shock. He hasn’t seen himself in months. He finds that malnutrition has stripped him of his healthy weight and has sharpened the line of his jaw enough to cut, and frowns at the fact that the narrow angle of his face makes his eyes seem even bigger than they are. It makes him look younger, somehow, and scared. 

“Hurry up,” the man demands.

Louis breaks his gaze away from his haunted reflection and opens the bag; the clothes are simple, just dark slacks and a button-up, but they feel expensive. There’s also new undergarments and socks, and a pair of loafers with an intricate stitch, and he reluctantly appreciates the foresight. He arranges the items neatly on the counter and then he turns on the sink, feeling numb and detached from himself. He rinses his hands and reluctantly strips off his shirt, then holds it under the water for a moment before using the wet cloth to wipe himself down as best as possible. Conscious of the impatient gaze of his escort, he hurries in stripping down and redressing in the new clothes, and he’s somehow not surprised to find that they fit well enough. They would have been exactly his size back before his arrest.

He understands that this is an introduction of sorts. Castili’s first material gift, given under the guise of kindness but sure to come at a cost later on. There will be other offerings, he knows, meant to lure him into gratitude and obligation.

He finishes buttoning up his shirt, marveling for a moment about the fact that it’s the softest thing he’s felt in months, and risks another glance in the mirror as he puts his prison clothes and boots in the duffel bag. He still looks ill with shock and starvation, but the quick rinse-off and the clean clothes go a long way. He looks nearly presentable. 

He slips on the loafers and startles when the other man snatches the duffel off of the counter and stuffs it into a nearly-too-small trash can. He gestures impatiently and Louis doesn’t miss the obvious bulk of a handgun tucked under the bruiser’s shirt. He nods and squeezes past the man and pushes out of the door, and then he allows himself to be led by the elbow through the airport and into the waiting area of a terminal. His escort pushes him down into a chair closest to the corner and then sits down next to him, and Louis nearly laughs at the predictability.

But he doesn’t laugh, and he doesn’t move for a long time. He sits rigid and trapped in the floaty tilt of unreality as the minutes trickle into an hour, and then beyond. He slowly shifts from staring straight ahead to staring out of the window instead. It’s dark and he catches himself thinking about Papillon. He wonders if he’s safe, if he has a roof over his head, if he has a full stomach. It’s the same mantra of questions he asks himself every time the sun pulls down below the horizon, but tonight is different--tonight Louis is out. He feels genuine hope for the first time since he saw smoke rising up out of the jungle and that gives a bittersweet edge to his thoughts about Papi.

 _It’s going to be okay,_ he tells himself, gripping his hands together in his lap. He recalls each time Papi had promised him that and takes comfort in those memories, though he tries to avoid thinking about the last time, the last day, because the memory of Papi’s sad eyes leaves him feeling raw with guilt.

He turns his inner eye ahead instead, to the sweet things Papi had dreamt up for them. He’s so focusing in trying to imagine it that he startles badly when his escort stands and then drags him to his feet by the bicep. It angers Louis to be manhandled and shoved around when he would have been perfectly happy to stand on his own, but he keeps his mouth shut. The time for temper and violence has passed. He needs to slip into a more familiar skin--docile but confident, intelligent without ambition. 

He thinks of Cormier and the guard and feels the first prickle of unease. He wonders if Castili’s already heard, if he’ll care. If he has heard, and if he knows that Louis is responsible, Louis decides that he’s willing to bet that Castili will overlook the transgression. He might even approve. Cormier said the operation was his own, but that could mean a number of things--it could mean that it was a secret, or it could mean that Cormier had come up with the scheme but had it sanctioned by Castili. Louis has no way of knowing if Castili had been getting a cut, but he’s certain that he can make more money in a week than Cormier could pull in at the prison in a year.

Well, he’s almost certain.

There’s an announcement in English from a plain-faced, smiling man at the front of the terminal, but Louis only half listens as he welcomes them and wishes them a safe journey. He feels his heartbeat pick up as he’s pulled into a short line of fellow passengers queued to board the aircraft--he’s never been on a plane before, and the circumstances aren’t ideal but he’s a bit excited nonetheless. He gazes around with interest as they’re led onto the tarmac and then up onto the plane, and he’s quietly pleased when his escort pushes him into the seat that’s closer to the window. It’s strategic, meant to keep him from getting chatty with anyone else, but he isn’t about to argue with getting a view.

He disregards another generic welcome announcement from a staff member as he stares out into the night. He imagines Papi somewhere dry and soft, perhaps already tucked into bed after a hard day of traveling, and before long he indulges in Papi’s fantasy again. 

A home in the country. A red door and a garden. A dog, _maybe_ , and peace and quiet. He thinks of Papi hogging the blankets of a bed-- _their_ bed, and he has to bite his lip to keep from smiling at the thought. His escort glances over and frowns at him, heavy brow low with suspicion, but Louis ignores him in favor of wondering what flowers are best to plant in spring.

✧ ✧ ✧

Henri turns his head and meets Dega’s gaze from across the room. He sways in his hammock and watches with passive interest as Dega lifts his chin and watches him back. The ship is cool, nearly cold as night falls onto the shifting planes of the sea, and Henri feels his skin prickle as the lamplight catches and flashes on the lens of Dega’s glasses. 

Heat seeps down into his belly as Dega smiles. It’s a sly thing, one full of intention and mischief. Henri swallows hard as Dega trails a hand over his own stomach, fingers shifting the pale fabric of his shirt, and it takes an effort not to swing his legs to the floor and push through the handful of men sitting between them. No one else seems to notice Dega’s quiet, clever movements, and Henri delights in this secret moment. He feels his breath quicken as Dega’s wandering fingers dip beneath his waistband and Henri tries to mimic the motion, suddenly desperate to touch himself, but his arm feels heavy and trapped. He squirms, and then he begins to struggle, and when he opens his eyes he finds himself wedged tightly against a wall.

Disappointment seeps in.

He’s still breathing harder than normal, and although he’s awake and well aware that he’s stuck on the grounds of a slaughterhouse and Dega’s across an ocean his body is still wrapped up in his dream and throbs with warmth.

He lifts his head and listens. It’s not dawn yet, though it’s getting close, and he can’t hear anything beyond Celier deep-chested snores from the next room over. He weighs his options and shifts away from the wall, then pulls the threadbare excuse for a blanket up and rolls onto his other side. He decides that he could use the release. 

In a moment of shameful inspiration he fishes the inked napkin out from under the mattress and plays with it between his fingers. Then he grips it in his left hand and snakes his right beneath the hemline of his pants. He’s still half-hard from the dream and even the light press of his own fingers feels electric. How long had it been since he’d touched himself? He thinks back to the storage building, back to when he’d had his mouth around Dega, and his shifts his hips eagerly at the memory.

He strokes the napkin between his fingers and for a moment it feels wrong, like he’s defiling something precious, but then he pictures telling Dega that he’d masturbated to the damn thing and knows that it would make him laugh. Henri’s chest aches at the thought, but it’s a pleasant pain, one paired with the anticipation of seeing Dega again. 

Yes, Dega would laugh, and then maybe he’d invite Henri to feel him instead. Henri grips himself harder and swallows a groan back down into his throat. He needs to keep quiet. He needs to hurry. He takes his hand out of his pants and spits into his palm as quietly as he can, and then he goes back to thinking about Dega touching him, touching himself, leading Henri to a couch or a bed or, hell, out to a garden. It’s sappy enough that he’s exasperated with himself, but he feels something tender at the thought. He roughly shoves his pants down his thighs and works his cock impatiently, nearly harsh in his ministrations as he chases the image of Dega laid out in the grass, touched golden and rosy-cheeked with sunlight.

In his sentimentality, Henri embarrasses himself by pressing the cloth to his face as he comes. He pants into it, stroking himself through the quietest orgasm he’s had since he was a teenager hiding beneath the blankets in his parents’ home. He lies still for a while afterward, and then draws the napkin away. He feels a curl of disgust as the blood returns to his head, remembering that the piece of cloth has been with him through the jungle and the dismemberment of a man. It’s mercifully free of stains but it’s still not something that should be anywhere near his face. He lays it aside and cleans himself with the blanket and wonders if washing the napkin will ruin the butterfly imprinted on it. 

He’ll definitely need to wash the blanket, at the very least. 

He pulls his pants up and drops the blanket to the floor, and then reverently folds and tucks away the napkin. Dirty or not, he wants it--it’s all that he has left of Dega, and Henri vows he’ll keep it safe until he sees him again.

 _Seven weeks,_ he thinks, and tries to ignore the fact that that feels like a long time.

He lies back in bed and embraces the mellow afterglow of a mediocre orgasm. His eyes track lilac as dawn creep across his ceiling, and he finds that he feels vaguely satisfied and well spent as he drifts in memories of the pressing Dega down beneath that desk. He thinks of Dega kissing the back of his neck, of the surprise and grief he’d felt at the unexpected gesture, and for the first time he wonders why he hadn’t turned around and said, ‘I love you’.

He lies on his back and tries to imagine Dega saying it back, and he hardly notices when his eyes slip shut again.

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis steps off of the plane and into the mid-morning Paris light and nearly drops straight onto the tarmac with exhaustion. He’d underestimated everything about the flight--the noise, the turbulence, the utter terror of it all--and he hadn’t managed to close his eyes for more than a moment at a time. At least his prickly escort hadn’t fared any better. He likewise looks ready to collapse and he can’t even muster the energy to drag Louis along anymore. Louis appreciates being able to walk under his own power but it’s hard to manage anything more than a stagger. He hasn’t gotten a full-night’s sleep since his arrest, and the last few nights at the prison without Papi had been especially hideous. 

It hardly even crosses his mind to try to get away, and when the thought does occur to him he quickly dismisses it--he’s not going to get anywhere in his state, especially not broke. And so he follows along like a good captive and trails the other man into the airport, through the terminal, and back out into the gleaming morning.

It’s cold. That’s the first thing Louis notices as he’s lead along the curb. He’d forgotten that winter in France would be like this, but he doesn’t mind. After the never-ending heat of French Guiana it feels like a miracle and he accepts each strengthening shiver with delight, because this more than anything tells him that it’s real, that he’s _home_. But suddenly the word doesn’t settle right. Aside from his incarceration, he’s never lived anywhere outside of France, and yet--

Louis abruptly realizes that he thinks of home as less of a somewhere and more of a someone and he feels a humiliated heat rise into his cheeks. What a thing to think. Papi would laugh and never let him hear the end of it if he’d been able to share that thought. The sensation of something missing lingers, though, and it helps to ground him as they approach an expensive-looking vehicle with a smiling, mustached man leaning against it.

Louis hangs back a few paces as his escort and the dark-haired man shake hands and have a brief conversation. 

_Time to focus,_ he tells himself as he tries to settle a queasy roll of anxiety in his stomach. _Time to play the game._

He waits until his escort leans away to take a few confident steps forward, and he greets his new babysitter with a bright smile and a firm handshake.

“Louis Dega,” he says, and he’s pleased when the man squeezes his hand and nods enthusiastically.

“William Dubuque. Welcome back to Paris, Mr. Dega.”

“Thank you--”

“Please, call me Will,” the man says quickly. He pumps Louis’ hand one more time and then lets go. “I hope your flight was enjoyable?”

Louis watches as his escort turns and walks away, his job apparently complete, and he maintains his smile with ease. He thinks that Dubuque will be much more pleasant to deal with.

“It certainly was an experience,” he says with exaggerated cheer. “I’m grateful for the earplugs that your man provided. And the clothing.”

Dubuque smiles like he had anything to do with the arrangement. “Of course! Of course, Mr. Dega. Mr. Castili wanted you to be comfortable.” He leans in a fraction closer, like they’re sharing a joke. “The earplugs really are a must! Unless you want hearing loss, that is.”

Dubuque laughs and Louis joins in with a polite chuckle. He turns and stares pointedly at the car afterward, hopeful he’s about to be escorted to a hotel where he can sleep for three days straight.

“Ah, yes, we should get going,” Dubuque agrees, stroking his mustache absently. “We don’t want to keep Mr. Castili waiting.”

Louis’ stomach swoops in horror. Dubuque must see it in his face because his expression twists into something sympathetic. 

“You must be exhausted from your trip! But Mr. Castili would like to treat you to breakfast before you get settled.”

“I see,” Louis says with a strained smile.

Dubuque opens the rear door and gestures at it, and Louis nods politely before sliding inside. The door shuts and Louis’ head swims. It’s artificially warm, and with the glare of the morning tempered he could easily close his eyes and sleep. 

Dubuque slips into the driver’s seat and turns to smile over his shoulder.

“It really is a pleasure to meet you,” he enthuses, and Louis can only blink at him in surprise. Dubuque laughs lightly at the look on his face. “You’re all but a celebrity, after all.” He turns and starts the car, and Louis frowns at the back of his head as the car is guided away from the curb and into the street. “We’re lucky Mr. Castili knows how to keep a secret, or else we would have been swarmed with reporters.”

“What?” Louis asks, feeling slow in his exhaustion. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, once they hear you’re back, you’ll be lucky to be able to walk down the street without being hounded by one of them!”

“Why?” Louis asks, feeling nauseous. “I’ve been acquitted--”

“Yes, exactly! Falsely accused, sent abroad to be worked half to death in an unforgiving country, saved by a dying confession from an old friend--”

“Wait--”

“--Of course, they don’t know that you’re actually guilty. And I mean no offense by that, Mr. Dega. I’ve heard your work is excellent--”

“Mr. Dubuque--”

“Please, call me Will!”

“Will,” Louis corrects with rapidly dwindling patience. “What did you mean by a ‘dying confession’?”

“Oh, I guess Mr. Castili didn’t share much with you, but that makes sense. Sort of hard when you were over there.” Dubuque is quiet for a moment. “That rat, the one that sold you out? Well, let’s just say that you don’t have to worry about him recanting on his recant.”

Dubuque laughs. Louis’ stomach sinks. He can’t deny that there had been many times since his arrest that he’d wished his old friend dead for turning on him, but--

“It was arranged,” Dubuque continues, “to look like like your Gossard found himself stricken with an ailment, and in his guilt and his fear of eternal damnation he confessed all of his sins. Of course, his ailment was a little bit of arsenic and he didn’t realize that Mr. Castili had no intention of letting him live once he’d recanted but--”

“I see,” Louis interrupts, not wanting to hear any more. “How clever.”

“That’s Castili for you,” Dubuque says with pride, turning down a narrow side street and nearly clipping an old woman trying to cross. 

Louis makes a note in the back of his mind. _Poisoner._ It likely won’t be possible to avoid accepting food and drink from Castili, but at least he can try to keep an eye out for suspicious symptoms. Dubuque chatters on for another few minutes and Louis manages to mostly pay attention as he shares gossip from the Paris highlife, and hums with feigned interest at all the right places despite the fact that he couldn’t care less about the mayor’s alleged affair. He’s equal parts relieved and terrified when Dubuque rolls the car to a stop outside of a discrete but upscale-looking restaurant tucked along a sideroad near the Seine river. 

Louis quickly tries to soothe down his hair as Dubuque leaps out of the car and circles around to open his door. He takes a deep breath and tells himself that it doesn’t matter that he’s less than presentable--this is what Castili wants. He no doubt desires Louis to be wrong-footed and humbled, to feel dirty and low, and Louis does his best not to care.

He glides gracefully out of the car and allows Dubuque to lead him into the restaurant, where he’s immediately assailed by the smell of food and he nearly doubles over with hunger and want. He’d been luckier than most to have been treated to more than slop and stale bread at the prison, but the smell of roasted chicken and rosemary and something sweet has his mouth watering and his mind numb.

He feels nearly sick with it as Dubuque gestures toward a small table off of the center of the room. It seats two and it’s empty. Louis tenses in surprise but doesn’t ask where Castili is. So much for keeping him waiting. Dubuque pulls out the chair that has its back to the door and Louis sits down and mumbles his thanks as Dubuque circles around to smile brightly at him.

“Mr. Castili will be here shortly.” He inclines his head and takes a step back. “It really was a pleasure to meet you. I don’t doubt that I’ll see you around.”

Louis can think of nothing to say to that. His mouth is suddenly dry with anxiety and he can only offer the man a tight smile in return. Dubuque nods again and then darts out of the restaurant. Louis sits and waits and tries not to stare too longingly at the glasses of water on the tables around him and on the trays of the waiters that pointedly ignore him. It’s immediately apparent that he isn’t to be served before Castili arrives and he refuses to admit to how terribly thirsty he is. He hasn’t had anything to drink since lunch the previous day, and that was only a quick sip of water before he’d swiped the apple. Which he hadn’t finished. His stomach cramps and he fights another wave of dizziness. 

He spends the rest of the wait fantasizing about what he’ll say to Papillon once they reunite in Lille and that proves to be a welcome distraction until Castili arrives. The crime lord enters with little fanfare, preceded by a hulking man dressed in a black suit, and Louis rises to his feet and turns to greet his new pseudo-warden.

Castili is shorter than expected. He’s probably an inch of two shorter than Louis, and he’s much older. But there’s a gravity to him that Louis immediately recognizes and he’s on his best behavior when he dips his head and extends his hand. 

“Mr. Dega,” Castili booms out, squeezing his hand in a firm shake. “Sorry for the wait.”

He isn’t the least bit sorry, but Louis is gracious in his understanding--he smiles and shakes his head, and then waits to sit until Castili has dropped into the chair across from him. Louis watches as he unfolds a silk napkin and drapes it across his lap.

“Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Castili,” he says once the other man has settled in. “I appreciate the gesture.”

Castili waves one hand in a cheerful dismissal. “How was your flight?”

“It certainly was an experience,” he repeats, and Castili laughs.

“That’s some diplomacy. Those damn things. Loud as hell, and nearly as uncomfortable.”

Louis inclines his head and quirks a smile of agreement. Castili looks around and waves over a server, and Louis takes a moment to take stock. 

He’s surprised. He’d pictured Castili as someone younger, someone stronger, someone who wanted to be seen as sophisticated. But Castili’s frail--even Louis might be able to take him in a fight--and he doesn’t seem inclined to put on airs. He speaks openly, with the rough accent of a man not raised in wealth. 

He’s unpretentious. 

He’s also dangerous.

Louis doesn’t doubt that some might underestimate the man because of his stature or his working-class manner, but Louis had felt steel in his grip and sees the sharpness of a shrewd mind behind his eyes. 

_Papi_ , he thinks with sudden exasperation, _Papi had certainly underestimated him._

Louis nearly misses it when Castili quietly orders drinks, and when he does catch on he nearly objects. He keeps his mouth shut but Castili picks up on something in his expression anyway.

“Come now, Mr. Dega, it’s your first day back in France. It’s cause for a celebration. You look like the type of man to appreciate a good mimosa, and believe me, they make the best in Paris here.”

Louis nods and fights down his misgivings. He’s exhausted and starving and desperately thirsty, the last thing he needs is alcohol, but he recognizes this as part of the game, too. Castili wants him off-kilter.

“Of course,” he agrees breezily. 

“They use the finest Champagne money can buy. I think you’ll like it.”

Louis smiles demurely and says nothing as the drinks are quickly laid before them. Castili immediately wraps his hand around the stem of the long flute and raises it, and Louis follows suit. He allows Castili to clink their glasses together.

“To the beginning of a partnership,” Castili declares, and then drinks heartily.

Louis murmurs his agreement and then takes a mouthful. After months without a drop of alcohol the Champagne stings pleasantly on the way down, and he thinks he feels it in his head by the time he mimics Castili and takes another sip.

 _He wants me drunk, or close to it,_ he realizes, but there’s nothing he can do to avoid it. He’d never been an especially heavy drinker, and on an empty stomach--

“Well, what do you think?”

“Best I’ve had,” Louis replies honestly.

Castili looks satisfied. He drains his glass and then gestures at no one in particular, but a moment later two full flutes are set at the table. Louis’ stomach puckers but he obediently drains his first and sets it aside. He takes a reluctant sip from the second as Castili wipes his mouth with a napkin.

“So, you must have questions, Louis. Can I call you Louis?”

“Of course. Please do.”

“And you’ll call me Jean,” Castili says like it’s the obvious conclusion. Louis feels a pinch of anxiety at the informality but smiles like it makes him happy. “Now, what can I clarify for you?”

Louis pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and considers. “The terms of our partnership. Your Mr. Cormier didn’t tell me much, only that you would like to make use of my skill set.” Castili nods and plays with the stem of his glass, and Louis takes that as a sign to continue. “I assume that I’ll offer you my services to pay off the considerable debt that I now owe you.”

An approving smile worms its way back onto Castili’s face. He seems genuinely pleased at the acknowledgement of the debt. “That is true. But I hope you’ll come to like working with me. I’ve looked into you--I always look into my investments. Your operation in Marseille was fine.” Louis feels a twinge of annoyance at the subtle slight but doesn’t let a hint of it surface. “We’ll streamline it. You’ll get to focus on the part you like, and you’ll leave the rest to me.”

“I see.”

“I don’t know how much our Papi told you about me,” Castili says, smiling, and Louis feels hazy with anger at the use of _our_. “But I’m a reasonable man.”

Louis takes another mouthful of orange juice and Champagne and stalls. He’s lightly buzzed and Papi is a precarious topic. 

“He said you’re fair minded.” Sort of. “Your information is always good, and you’re generous to those that treat you well.” Surprise crosses Castili’s face. “And you’re quick to turn on those who turn on you.”

Castili purses his lips into a smile as he finishes his second glass. 

“He recognizes that he falls into the latter category.”

“Really.”

Louis nods and hesitates before draining his flute. His head feels white and he has to take a deep breath when he sees Castili lazily gesture for more. _Christ,_ he thinks, but doesn’t push away the fresh drink that’s set in front of him.

“Yes, he told me about what he did. That he held back.”

“Good.” Castili seems set to say more, but a harried-looking man approaches from the back of the restaurant to murmur in his ear. Louis catches the word ‘telephone’ and the urgency in the man’s voice, but Castili seems unconcerned as he murmurs back what Louis presumes to be instructions of some sort. Or, orders, more likely.

Louis waits and finds that his eyes stay closed a fraction longer than they should when he blinks, and he takes to pinching his arm under the table to help him focus.

“Well,” Castili says, smiling again as the other man retreats back into the kitchen. “It’s like you said--you’ll work for me. You do have a significant debt to work off. Plane tickets aren’t cheap, and I had to call in a few expensive favors to fix your mess for you.”

Louis winces and nods. 

“But, why don’t we start now, Louis?”

Louis looks up, not having realized that his gaze had drifted down to the table. He watches as Castili slips something small and flat across the silky tablecloth. His eyebrows raise as Castili taps two fingers on a checkbook that has Louis’ name and banking information on it.

“Eight hundred seventy two.” Castili smiles with mock sympathy. “Not quite an even million, but pretty close. Would’ve been right about that if not for your initial legal fees. But--not bad for a small time operation, Louis.”

“You’ve been talking to my lawyer,” Louis says with a mild slur to his words. His face feels hot, but he doesn’t feel especially angry. It’s somehow not surprising that Castili has the information, and it’s even less surprising that he wants everything Louis has left.

Castili smiles a secretive sort of smile. A pen appears in his hand and is placed lightly on top of the checkbook someone obviously lifted from Louis’ apartment in Marseille. A wrinkled hand gestures with flourish but Louis pretends to hesitate. He doesn’t give a shit about his bank account--he’d already written that money off, having expected that it had been seized as evidence after his arrest. But he’s meant to be a man more concerned with francs than common sense, and he’s edging quickly toward drunk but he’s not stupid. He waits just long enough to make it count, and then writes out the amount that Castili had listed off and signs his name.

Castili’s expression is fond as he takes the checkbook back and tucks it into his jacket pocket. Louis takes a swig from his new flute for the hell of it, and belatedly realizes that Castili is waiting for something.

He takes another mouthful in a moment of panic. _He knows,_ he realizes. _Or he’s guessed._

His hesitation is genuine this time but he understands the stakes and decides it’s better to surrender the information than to make Castili ask for it. “And what about the rest?”

Castili’s teeth show in something oddly reminiscent of affection. “Have a bit stashed away, do you?”

Louis nods.

“Didn’t trust that wife of yours?”

Louis shrugs.

“Where is it?”

“Marseille, of course.”

Castili leans back in his chair and folds his hands over his belly and considers him. Louis doesn’t flinch under the scrutiny. 

“How much?”

The answer comes easily. It has to be enough to be believable but he can’t give Castili _all_ of his cache. “Two hundred thousand. And some change.”

Castili laughs and Louis watches with dull fascination as the flesh of his neck dances with the motion. “A million after all!” He leans forward again and slaps the table. “Good for you.”

It’s a funny thing to say, given that Louis just signed most of it away and offered the remainder, so he laughs, too.

“You understand that this doesn’t erase your debt,” Castili says.

Louis nods. He does know. He’s meant to belong to Castili until one of them dies, no matter how much money he makes him in the meantime.

“Good. I’ll make the arrangements. You’ll go down to Marseille this weekend.”

“Alright,” Louis agrees, feeling a rush of excitement. It’s the perfect opportunity to gain Castili’s trust and secure a couple hundred thousand for himself and Papi, just as planned. He’ll just need to figure out how to divide the cache without being found out by the men that Castili will no doubt send down with him. 

“Excellent.”

“What day is it?” Louis asks after a moment, frowning and swaying in his seat. He belatedly notices that Castili never touched his third glass. Louis glances at his own and finds it more than half empty.

“It’s Thursday. November fifth.”

 _November fifth already,_ Louis thinks, and for a split second the image of seeing Papi again by New Years is so vivid it nearly brings him to tears.

He startles when Castili’s strong hand lands on his shoulder. He looks up, having missed it when the old man stood and approached, and he finds Castili smiling down at him with great benevolence. 

“I’ve rented an apartment for you. I’m told you’re used to the ritzy life, I think you’ll approve.” His fingers pinch at Louis’ shirt and he twists his mouth. “You’ve lost some weight, Louis.”

“Prison,” Louis says and grins like it’s a joke. 

Castili chuckles and squeezes down hard on his shoulder again, giving him a light shake. “We’ll get you back up to fighting weight in no time, but I’ll have some things a size down sent up.”

“Thank you,” Louis says because he knows that’s what he’s supposed to say. Castili’s still got him in a firm grip but it’s not unpleasant. The weight of it, the heat of his strong hand, it’s comforting. Fatherly. Louis frowns. 

“William will take you over, and then you can get some rest. He’ll pick you up again this evening.”

“Oh?” Louis asks without thinking. “Why?”

“My place--I’ll give you the grand tour of the club, and then we’ll sit down and have dinner and go over the details of our partnership. In the meantime, stay and have some breakfast.” Castili leans in closer and mutters, like he’s sharing a secret. “The _Chaussons aux Pomme_ here is excellent.”

Louis nods and Castili gives him one last paternal squeeze before patting him and walking away.

Louis angles his head to watch him turn up his collar and step outside. He winces when sunlight catches on the glass of the door, and then he turns back to the table and drains his glass.

✧ ✧ ✧

Dubuque appears promptly after Louis cleans his plate. The _Chaussons aux Pomme_ had been excellent, just as promised, though it settles uncomfortably in Louis’ neglected stomach. It takes an effort to stand and walk without staggering into something but he makes it to the door and out into the freezing morning without embarrassing himself. Dubuque chatters and opens the car door for him, but Louis takes a moment to stare up at the gathering clouds. He closes his eyes and relishes in a lash of wind and the way the November air settles against his skin.

But then Dubuque touches the small of his back in an unmistakable prompt and Louis reluctantly climbs into the backseat. The car feels too warm but Louis doesn’t roll down the window. He slumps against the seat and tries to pay attention as Dubuque navigates the city, yet he’s hopelessly lost by the time they pull down a quiet side street and stop in front of an imposing building. Louis doesn’t wait for his door to be opened and Dubuque frowns at him when he circles around the car.

“Well?” Dubuque asks, shaking off his disapproval of Louis’ independence. “What do you think?”

“Very impressive.” Louis is annoyed at the rasp in his voice, but he tries to be sympathetic with himself--he’s exhausted and a step away from drunk and he doesn’t need to pretend in the same perfect way with Dubuque.

Dubuque smiles and ducks his head like he personally picked the apartment. He strides up and opens the door and Louis obediently enters. Things blur a bit at the edges as he’s led up a horribly tedious staircase to the third floor, and he hardly stops to appreciate the genuine beauty of the apartment as Dubuque unlocks the door and leads him inside.

“Mr. Castili arranged to have everything stocked,” he says, sweeping his arm to gesture around the room. “Clothing, food. Alcohol,” he elaborates with a wink. 

Louis is too tired to get worked up at his tone. He ignores Dubuque in favor of wandering past a luxurious looking couch and a glass table with a fresh arrangement of flowers, seeking out the bedroom. He finds it on his first try and pauses to stare longingly at the bed.

“I’ll be back around six o’clock,” Dubuque is saying. “There’s a telephone over here, if you need anything before that. I wrote down a couple of numbers, call the one at the top first--that’s me--and work your way down if I don’t answer.”

Louis turns and aims a bitter smile at him. “Many other men to babysit?”

He thinks Dubuque frowns but couldn’t say for sure.

“Nope. Just you,” Dubuque says after a moment, laughing like Louis said something funny. “So do me a favor and behave yourself.”

Louis waves dismissively and pushes his way into the bedroom.

“Keys are by the telephone, Mr. Dega!” Dubuque calls.

Louis grunts and collapses on the strangely obnoxious royal-blue sheets, uncaring that he’s still got his glasses on. He hears Dubuque let himself out and is just sober enough to understand that the soft click of the latch means that Dubuque has his own set of keys.

Not good.

But there’s nothing to be done for it.

Louis rolls over and sits up with an effort, and the world sways unpleasantly. The curtains in the bedroom have been courteously drawn but the room still seems too bright. He takes off his shoes and reluctantly rises to close the bedroom door, then pulls off his shirt and slacks and leaves them in a sloppy pile on the floor. He takes off his glasses but keeps them clenched in one hand as he falls back into the impossibly soft bed and closes his eyes.

He expects to drift off in an instant, but he finds himself blinking hazily up at the ceiling a few moments later. 

_Papillon,_ he thinks, and doesn’t bother to fight off the hot ache in his eyes. He’s properly alone for the first time in months and he allows himself to indulge in a minute of self-loathing. 

He’d left Papi behind. 

He’s safe, in a comfortable bed with a full stomach in a lovely apartment in France, and Papi is---what? He has no idea. 

He could be dead.

Louis turns his head to the side and scrubs at his eyes until they hurt, and then he falls asleep to the thought of never seeing Papillon again.

✧ ✧ ✧

Working on a pig farm is even less glamorous than Henri might have expected, but the worst part of it is staring down at the beady-eyed little bastards and wondering which ones have sampled human flesh. It’s unsettling and he comes to hate the poor animals as the morning stretches into noon.

Henri sags with relief when Marcel waves them away for lunch, tossing a bundle at Julot. They’re near jovial as they settle down to eat upwind of the pig pens, and Julot runs his mouth while Henri ruminates on the luxury of a sandwich. It’s not an especially good sandwich, but Marcel’s wife had clearly put in some effort and it’s better than anything he’d been given at the prison, except for the occasional pilfered snack from Dega.

He chews and considers his fortune. Celier and Julot are getting along well enough, and after a decent night’s sleep and some food Henri is back to feeling on solid ground with Celier. They don’t speak about their resentments but it’s easy enough to pretend that they don’t exist when they’re elbow deep in pig shit or trying to herd the squealing beasts into various pens throughout the day.

Sitting down to eat together has proven to be great for morale, too, because it gives them the opportunity to relax and find solidarity in their complaints. But between an array of burps and spitting and crude jokes Henri finds that dearly misses Dega’s polite company, which he thinks Dega would probably resent. Henri hides a smile. Dega had always liked the idea of fitting in with the other men but he’d never once made an effort to do so. He’d clung to his civilized image of himself and he’d still somehow been surprised to have been seen as an outsider. Henri’s smile starts to slip. It really wasn’t any wonder Dega had been harassed so mercilessly, was it? He was mild-mannered, a near pacifist, and he’d kept himself as clean as possible. Combined with his size and pretty face, he was the closest thing to a woman in the prison.

 _He would definitely resent that thought,_ Henri knows.

He pictures Dega fluffing up at the perceived slight and starts to smile again, but his quiet reverie is broken by an obnoxious belch. He glances up to find Julot patting his stomach and Celier grinning.

Henri rolls his eyes and Julot casts him a sidelong glance.

“You must’ve enjoyed your stay at prison, huh?” he says after a moment.

“What?”

“Took you long enough getting out. I’d been expecting a call from Adrián for weeks.”

Henri hesitates, mindful of Celier’s attentive ears. “Had to get some stuff in order,” he says vaguely. “Besides, you could’ve left a goddamn hint about where to find the damn place. We wasted some time trying to figure it out.”

Julot blinks and pops his mouth open, then he squints like he’s not sure if Henri’s making a joke. “What about the map?”

“What map?”

“The goddamn map I drew!”

“What map?” Henri asks again, exasperated.

“The one I drew inside of the envelope!”

Henri’s jaw drops open but he’s at a loss for words. Julot barks out a laugh at the look on his face.

“Shit. You guys didn’t even notice. You, I’m not surprised, you big idiot. But Dega? Isn’t he supposed to be the smart one?”

Henri protests weakly, but he can’t deny the oversight. It’s a little funny, at least as long as he doesn’t stop to think about what might have happened if Dega had been less subtle in his inquiry or if he and Celier had gone the wrong way. 

“How’d you manage it, without the map?” Julot asks.

Henri smiles and relays the story of Dega fishing for information from a guard, proud to reassert Dega’s intelligence, and Julot looks appropriately impressed. 

“See? The smart one,” Julot says, nodding to himself.

Henri shakes his head in amusement and almost misses it when Celier’s eyes narrow. He clearly isn’t a fan of the direction of the conversation, and Henri’s stomach sinks as he watches Celier swallows his mouthful of sandwich and then jerk his chin in Julot’s direction.

“He’s not so smart,” Celier objects, and then spits on the ground. “We had to guess. Luck got us here more than anything, not Dega.”

Henri feels his shoulders tense up but decides to keep his mouth shut, not willing to needlessly defend Dega’s honor if it means dealing with Celier sulking for the rest of the day.

Julot shrugs. “His plan and his money got you guys out.”

“He wasn’t smart enough to get himself out,” Celier retorts, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “And he wasn’t smart enough to handle El Caimán, was he?” 

“Who?”

“Big Croatian fucker,” Celier relays with cruel nonchalance.

Henri’s tensed up enough that he finds it difficult to breathe. He knows that Celier’s just trying to get a rise out of him, he knows it’s not worth it to engage, but Celier’s doing a damn good job. He knows exactly where to hit to make it hurt.

“What, Papi didn’t tell you?”

Henri ignores the curious stare Julot sends his way. “Shut the fuck up,” he warns Celier, but the other man starts talking over him.

“Our friend Dega finally got his cherry popped.”

Henri’s jaw clenches so hard he momentarily worries about cracking his back teeth. He can see Julot frowning at him from the corner of his eye but Celier’s got his full attention.

“Fuck you.”

Celier only laughs. “Papi got his head kicked in and Dega took it like a bitch. Surprised it took that long for him to take it up the ass, but I heard he was real tight, real soft.”

Henri lurches to his feet, flushed with outrage, but Celier isn’t intimidated. “Caimán gave his friends turns, too,” he sneers.

“Shut the fuck up,” Henri warns again, his face glowing hot. He doesn’t think that’s true, but he hates that he doesn’t know for sure. Dega hadn’t ever talked about what happened while Henri was in the hospital, not beyond that first fight.

 _I wish it had killed me,_ Dega had confessed in his wounded rage. Henri’s stomach flips and threatens to heave up his lunch and he sways, undecided on violence, but Celier is seemingly set on pushing him over the edge. 

“He was even nice enough to let the rest of us watch.”

Henri’s fist breaks across Celier’s jaw and he feels a sharp sting of satisfaction at catching him off guard. Celier stumbles back a step and grabs at his face, eyes ablaze with animosity, and Henri squares his shoulders and gets into a stronger stance and prepares to hit him again.

“The fuck,” Julot squawks, and Henri’s momentarily distracted by Julot’s hand grabbing at his shoulder. “Calm the fuck down--”

Celier tackles Henri around the midsection and takes them both to the ground. Henri wheezes, winded from the blow and Celier’s weight, and he feels Julot wiggle out from under them and roll away. Celier sits on his stomach and raises a fist but Henri slams the heel of his hand under Celier’s chin before it can land.

Celier gives a garbled shout and Henri shoves him off. He stumbles to his feet and faces Celier with his fists raised, ready to settle their score, but Julot’s boot suddenly connects with Celier’s ribs. Celier stays on his knees but hunches over, clutching his side.

“Fuck you!” Julot shouts, but he’s grinning, eager for the high of a fight.

Henri takes an unsteady step back, his own bloodlust satiated by the sight of Celier curled in on himself. He calls Julot’s name and shakes his head when Julot glances over.

“Enough,” Henri says quietly.

Julot eyes him with disappointment, and then he shrugs as Celier grunts and staggers to his feet. They eye him warily but Celier is smart enough to know his odds are grim against the both of them. He spits on the ground at Henri’s feet and storms away with a hand still pressed against his ribs.

Julot opens his mouth to say something but Henri abruptly turns and stalks off in the opposite direction.

✧ ✧ ✧

Julot has the good sense to wait a while before approaching him. He finds Henri scowling at the jungle and plops down next to him against the side of one of the barns and doesn’t say anything for a long moment. 

“Well, shit,” he finally hisses out, deflating with exaggeration. “It true?”

Henri doesn’t need to ask what he means. He doesn’t want to talk about it, but he abruptly needs Julot to understand.

“He didn’t whore himself for protection,” he grits out. The words sit heavy and bitter on his tongue. He braces his elbows on his knees and twists his hands together and then he quietly shares the bare minimum--Dega buying Henri a stay at the infirmary, losing his glasses, Henri ill and outnumbered, Dega throwing that pathetic punch.

“At least he went down swinging.” Julot says it lightly, like it’s a joke, but he’s obviously sympathetic. “Hey, stronger men than that shrimp have done worse to stay alive. Just the way it goes, Papi. Would’ve been smarter to lie back and take it, but good for him for trying to fight back, you know?”

Henri shrugs one shoulder, nauseous at the reminder of Dega apologize for not fighting harder.

“At least he kept himself alive until you got out.”

Henri winces. “Not exactly.” He sees Julot look at him expectantly and sighs out through his nose. “Your friend, Guittou, you remember him?”

“Yeah.”

“I told him to get Dega to the infirmary so that I could protect him from the inside.” Henri hesitates to fight off a swell of shame. “I told him it was okay to hurt Dega if he had to.”

“Shit.”

“I thought it would be better than--out there. With them. But Guittou, that fuck--he stabbed him.”

Julot stares, eyes comically wide, mouth popped open even wider than usual. He whistles out after a moment. “Shit,” he says again.

“He’s dead,” Henri reports grimly. “Caimán’s man killed him for what happened to Dega. I know he was your friend. Sorry.” He’s not really all that sorry, but it seems like the right thing to say.

Julot shrugs, indifferent now that the shock has worn off. “I knew he was a dumbass. That’s why he got left behind.” He gives a short laugh, stretching out against the wall. “Shit, Papi, guess I should be the one saying sorry, for making him your problem.”

Henri sucks in air between his teeth and shrugs again, brushing dirt off of the knee of his pants. “It all worked out,” he says quietly, though he doesn’t quite believe it.

Julot brightens. “Sure,” he says with easy agreement, and then pulls a cigarette and a matchbox from his pocket and lights it.

Henri turns his face away, stomach roiling. He shakes his head when Julot tries to pass it. 

“Can’t deal with the smell anymore,” he says.

Julot shrugs and takes another drag. “So. What’re you going to do about that asshole?”

“Celier?”

“Yeah.”

“Nothing,” Henri grumbles. “I want to finish what we started--want punch his fucking teeth out, but what good would that do?”

“Might make you feel better.” Henri turns to stare and Julot grins. “Might make me feel better,” he adds, puffing out smoke. “Not too crazy about hearing someone talk shit about the little guy.”

Henri feels a strange swoop of gratitude, and it must show in his eyes because Julot laughs and shakes his head when he turns to say something.

“Damn, Papi,” he starts, but Marcel appears around the corner of the building and shouts for them to get back to work.

Henri turns to find the hog farmer standing with his hands on his hips. He doesn’t feel inclined to spend the rest of his day shoveling pig shit, but Julot flicks his cigarette away and stands, and after a moment Henri rises to his feet and silently follows him into the barn.

He doesn’t see Celier for the rest of the afternoon. He knows it’s too much to hope that he’d taken off for good.

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis wakes to an unfamiliar ceiling and an unforgiving headache. The fact that he’s in Paris is nearly secondary to how terribly thirsty he is, and his hands shake as he puts his glasses on the bridge of his nose and sits up. He stumbles out of the bedroom and into the overbright living room, where he makes his way to the sink and pulls a crystal glass from the cabinet, filling it and drinking until the splitting ache in his head subsides. Only then does he sigh and lean against the counter and consider where he is. 

The plane. Paris. Castili.

Disoriented, he squints against the buttery light and he wonders if he’d managed to sleep through the night and straight into the next day, but then he realizes that someone would sooner be sent to beat him and drag him out of bed than keep Castili waiting. Louis considers his dinner arrangements with said crime boss and slowly crosses the room to sink down onto the ornate couch. It’s not half as soft as it looks. He closes his eyes and wonders if he can fall back asleep, because he knows that he couldn’t have been out for more than a few hours despite how desperately tired he still feels. 

He opens his eyes. He knows he won’t be able to sleep again, not with anxiety ramping up his heartbeat, because the idea of a tour of Castili’s club is tolerable but the thought of enduring a full meal with the man is entirely overwhelming.

 _This is what you wanted,_ he reminds himself.

He leans his head back and tries to prepare himself for the evening, but thoughts of Papillon consume him. He allows himself to wallow in self-pity again for a few minutes, regretting every decision that led him away from Papi’s side, but then he cuts himself off. It’s too late for regrets. He’s out. He’s in Paris. He has a job to do. His conversation with Castili is blurred at the edges but he remembers enough of it to know that he’ll be escorted down to Marseille in two days. He has to get the money, divide it, deliver it--and there’s Clara to consider. The thought of her makes his throat squeeze shut, but he keeps his anguish at arm’s length as he focuses on the logistics of visiting her grave and paying his ex-attorney an unannounced visit.

A hot curl of betrayal tightens his chest at the thought of his bastard lawyer and he has to fight that just as hard as his grief. One thing at a time. He can think of all the things he wants to say to Léon on the train ride down to Marseille on Saturday.

In the meantime, he has a performance to prepare for.

Louis pushes himself to his feet and wanders into the bathroom, flicking on the light and wincing against the harsh glare of white tile. He considers his reflection in the mirror and digs around for a razor, and then he begins filling the tub with hot water as he shaves. He cleans the razor and the sink afterward, then runs his fingers through his hair. He badly needs a trim but he’s not about to embarrass himself by trying to handle it alone, and he wonders if he can find a decent barber before dinner. 

_Not too bad, though,_ he thinks. He looks a bit more alive and a lot less scared than he had in the airport--a real meal and some sleep certainly went a long way. He frowns at himself in the mirror and thinks of Papi again. The usual stream of questions parade through his mind--has he eaten? Is he safe? Is he alive? Is he still coming?--but he manages to shake them off and strip before he overwhelmes himself with uncertainty.

 _Have faith,_ he tells himself as he shuts off the tap at the spigot and stares down into the tub of rippling water. 

The luxury of a hot bath is a shock. He can’t even remember the last time he had access to warm water, and it’s nearly uncomfortable until he settles in and adjusts. His glasses fog over so he takes them off and then leans back and tries to relax, but he’s plagued with anxiety. 

Had he done the right thing?

It’s a question that is fair for most of his recent choices--provoking a fight between that convict and Dumont, ratting Cormier and Castili’s guard out to the deputy warden, handing over a million francs to a notorious crime lord. But the one that haunts him is the most predictable--should he have gone with Papillon?

 _Yes,_ he thinks, but it’s only half true and born from the weakest part of him. He’d made his choice and he’d made it with good reason. He sinks deeper into the water and wonders what Papi will say when he finds out about the extent of his deception. 

_Well, it won’t matter by then,_ he tries to reassure himself, but he quails at the thought of Papi’s anger. He’ll likely never know that Louis had lied about his release date, but the rest of it, the things he hasn’t done yet--will Papi be proud, or will he be furious?

 _Both,_ Louis decides with a small smile. 

He closes his eyes and lets his mind wander, but it doesn’t stray far. He finds himself trying to imagine what would have happened if he’d gone with Papi. It silly and short-sighted, but in that moment he indulges in the thought of the simple life that Papi had offered. He pictures a vegetable farm with a flower garden and a reasonably-sized, well-mannered dog; he pictures Papi after a day in the sun and shifts restlessly at the feelings that that stirs in him. 

Louis opens his eyes and stares at the abstract blur of white above him. He listens to his own soft breathing and the _plop_ of a stray drop of water dripping from the faucet. He thinks of Papi’s bright eyes blown dark, of his ridiculous tattoos and his sweat-wet skin, and then he shyly slips a hand under the water.

It’s fun for a moment. Thoughts of Papi and his own fingers are enough to leave him breathless, but it isn’t long before the echo of a _bang_ reverberates the the wall and he startles badly, gripping the porcelain edge of the tub and sloshing water into the floor. He gets his glasses on and stares apprehensively at the bathroom door, but someone shouts and he realizes the commotion is coming from his new neighbor.

Louis deflates with relief. 

He considers picking up where he left off, but the moment has passed. Anxiety rears up in him again and he quickly cleans himself with methodical detachment, thinking of nothing except _what’s next_ as he works shampoo into his hair and then dips under the water to rinse off. 

He’s halfway to calm by the time he dries himself, and he tries to ignore the twinge of guilt he feels at appreciating the softness of the towel. It probably cost more than most men make in a month, and it’s certainly better than anything Papi has access to in South America.

He wipes his glasses and perches them back on his nose and takes notice of the small, ugly scar on his belly for the first time in quite a while. It had been easy enough to ignore at the prison. If his shirt had been off, he was either showering and in fear for his life, or he was distracted by Papi’s clever hands in a storage building. He examines the raised line of skin and then runs his fingertips along it, and he wonders if the cold ache he feels there is real or a phantom memory of pain.

He thinks of Guittou and then, inevitably, of Guibert. He works himself up into a bad mood as he wraps the towel around his waist and then searches the bedroom for clothes. They’re all a touch too big and not quite his style, but they’re downright glamorous next to prison stripes. He selects a pair of charcoal grey slacks and considers the surprising array of dress shirts Castili has stocked his closet with. The colors range from boring to bold and Louis can’t decide which is funnier--the idea of Castili hand-picking shirts for him or him ordering one of his thick-necked goons to flounder through a men’s boutique on his behalf. 

He shakes his head and dresses, then he wanders back into the bathroom to smooth his curls down with pomade. It’s less than he would have used before his arrest, but he decides that he quite likes the slightly rumpled look--it feels a bit like rebellion, like he doesn’t care enough about his dinner date with Castili to slick his hair flat. 

It isn’t quite true but he’s happy to try to sell the illusion.

Louis regards himself in the mirror and nods with approval, and then wonders what Papi would think. He expects a cruel wave of insecurity to crash over him, because he’s an attractive man but he’s still a _man_ , but instead he feels oddly at peace. He hasn’t had the luxury of that particular kind of introspection lately, and maybe it’s having gotten a few hours of sleep in a real bed, or maybe Papi had finally convinced that voice in the back of his head to quiet down, but he remembers believing Papi wholeheartedly on the night before he’d escaped. There had been devotion in Papi’s eyes, downright devastation, and Louis refuses to dishonor their time together by doubting Papi now.

He stares at his reflection and then embarrasses himself by wondering if Papi will be pleased to see him in fine clothes one day. The other man has already seen him at his worst--filthy, sick, red-faced with anger, brought low with shame. Louis hopes that he’ll have gained some weight back and that the freckles on his shoulders will fade before their reunion, but that suddenly seems like a silly thing to wish. 

Papi won’t care what he looks like either way. 

Louis takes another moment to consider the reverse--Papi clean and in an expensive suit, with his hair as long long enough to sink his fingers into, and he watches as his cheeks turn dark in the mirror.

He averts his eyes and wanders back out to the living room, where he he only hesitates for a moment before picking up the telephone and dialing the first number on the list.

✧ ✧ ✧

Henri sulks in his room after an early dinner, turning Dega’s napkin over in his hand and ignoring the familiar voice in his head that scolds him for the darkening bruises on his knuckles. But there’s something powerful about the dissonance between his battered hand and the delicate lines of the butterly, something poetic. He smiles down at it, and when he looks up he finds Julot grinning in the doorway. He feels an ugly burn of embarrassment but he doesn’t protest when Julot approaches and collapses down next to him on his bed. 

“What the hell is that?”

Henri shrugs and tucks the cloth away before Julot can snatch it up. “Dega drew it,” he says slowly. 

“Jesus. He got under your skin good, huh?” 

Henri shrugs and Julot laughs, leaning back on his hands and stretching his legs out across the floor.

“Good for him.” Julot nods to himself. “You fuck him?”

Henri breathes out in a bid for patience, but doesn’t deny it. Julot playfully punches him on the shoulder.

“Good for you, I guess I should say,” Julot amends gleefully, “getting that rich tail.”

Henri relaxes into the gentle ribbing. “You don’t seem surprised.”

“That’s because I’m not. I knew you had it in you,” Julot quips, running his tongue over his teeth. “Besides, you’ve had a bug up your ass about him since day one.”

Henri makes a noise of disbelief and Julot scoffs at his dismissal in return.

“I point him out, and bang, there goes any hope I had of partnering up for an escape. Or what, you forget about stalking him through the whole damn boat, and then ignoring my sorry ass for the rest of the trip?”

Henri frowns. “I didn’t ignore you.”

Julot laughs at him, though not unkindly. “You’re stupid. You would’ve been better off with me, or hell, even Galgani, but you just had to have Dega.”

Henri feels a jolt of surprise and turns to face Julot. “Galgani? I thought you wanted me to partner up with Dega.”

“Nah.” Julot shrugs a shoulder. “I like Dega more, respected his game even back then, but I would’ve gone with the other one. Galgani wasn’t as rich or as famous, and he was a helluva lot less cute. He wouldn’t have attracted half as much attention as your boy. He was a lot less feisty, too. Probably would’ve been happy to follow you around like a kicked puppy.”

Henri turns away. The memory of Galgani split open seeps up behind his eyelids and he finds himself picturing Dega in his place for the first time in months. His stomach twists and he places a protective hand over the lump of the napkin in his pocket.

What if Julot had made Galgani an outright suggestion, and not just an implication that Henri overlooked in favor of Dega’s spirit and pretty face? Would he have listened, would he have left Dega to the wolves? Would he have even cared if Dega had gotten gutted that first night?

He feels sick.

“Hey,” Julot says, sounding less jovial in the face of Henri’s obvious distress. “Cheer up, Papi. You said it yourself--it all worked out for the best, yeah?”

He slaps Henri’s back and then retreats, leaving the room and whistling a particularly obnoxious melody off key. Henri turns to stare out the little window on the far wall and tries to talk himself out of his unease, but he circles back to the ugly truth--it _hasn’t_ all worked out for the best because it isn’t over yet. Dega’s still in danger, maybe more so than ever, because even Henri doesn’t know the extent of Castili’s mean streak and he’s already had Dega under his thumb for days. Would Dega really survive two months without someone to get him to shut up, without someone to remind him of all the things he has to look forward to, to live for?

He curses Dega’s stubbornness again. He doesn’t care about the goddamn money, he just wants Dega back at his side. He would trade Dega’s entire cache of francs if it meant that he could tuck the smaller man back under his arm and never be parted from him again--

There’s a movement from the corner of his eye and Henri glances up, expecting to see Julot again, but instead he finds Celier hesitating in his doorway. Henri’s fury reignites at the sight of him. He balls his hands into fists and braces them against his thighs to avoid putting them to use, and Celier eyes him warily in the failing light of the afternoon. He doesn’t say anything, and for a moment Henri’s wildly grateful for that because he doesn’t want an apology, doesn’t want an excuse, he only wants his righteous anger and a good reason to put Celier’s front teeth out. 

Celier’s face is impassive. He doesn’t look like he’s got anything to say, but still he stands there and haunts Henri’s doorway; caustic words make Henri’s tongue feel heavy with intent, but he doesn’t speak and he doesn’t break Celier’s gaze. He’s not going to back down and he sure as shit isn’t going to say sorry. 

Celier abruptly seems to realize this and his face goes dark with dismay. His bruised jaw tightens and his eyes narrow, and then he turns and stomps off into his room without another word. Henri chews on his cheek and listens. He expects to hear Celier lash out in anger, but he doesn’t yell or hit the wall. He doesn’t make a sound. 

Henri can’t manage to choke down a swell of dread that rises up at the silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this boring? It seems like it's probably boring. Maybe there's too much talking and introspection for one chapter but it doesn't feel right to cut out more than I already have, so... yikes, I guess.
> 
> In other news, I rewatched the first half of the movie again recently and I noticed some stuff for the first time and I'm fucking dying. Papi was like 0.05 seconds away from being caught after burglarizing that safe in the beginning. He climbs down the pipe and walks to the street and there's a cop with a flashlight _immediately_ shining it up at the broken window and I'm asldkfj fuck, Papi, my man, that was so close!! and he looks all cocky and oblivious and I just love his dumb ass so much, o k
> 
> In other _other_ news, doing research for this story has been hilariously enlightening. I had no idea that Vaseline existed in 1930, or that the term "popping their cherry" was around as early as 1918. My search history is now filled with stupid shit like "when was this phrase first used?", and the basic things I've had to look up... what was it like to fly on a plane in 1930? what did airports look like back then? what was men's fashion at the time? did they have antibiotics? no? what did they use instead? what the fuck did prisoners eat in a penal colony in the 1920s? did prisons have cafeterias? I still don't really have a clear answer on those last two, but basically I'm trying my best but I'm really fucking bad at history and if you notice any inaccuracies please tell me, I'll be more than happy to fix them!


	19. Dix-neuf

Louis resists the urge to rub his hand along the cleanly shaven sides of his head. He’d instructed the barber to leave it long on top, remembering Papi’s proclivity for entangling his fingers in it, but he’d had the rest shorn off. Dubuque had looked dubious about the change but had dutifully handed over the francs for the cut, and he’d later complained that Louis’ hair had looked better as it was. Louis had ignored him, happy with his choice. He looks older this way, more settled, and that makes him feel a bit more in control. 

The fact that he doesn’t even have the pocket change to pay for his own haircut rankles at him but he knows that that’s exactly what Castili wants.

Louis sits at the bar of the club and watches the growing crowd. Castili hadn’t been around to give Louis the tour as promised--that duty had fallen to one of his lackeys instead, a tall, big-lipped man whose eyes never seemed to fully open. Dubuque had introduced him simply as Lemoine--no first name, no indication of what he does or who he is to Castili. He’d barely spoken, hadn’t even shaken Louis’ hand, but aside from its mortifyingly gaudy exterior the club was pretty self-explanatory: main lounging rooms, a stage, bar, dressing room, and a series of back rooms with various men loitering and staring hard as they passed.

It’s all pretty familiar. Louis had frequented a number of similar establishments in Marseille and he has no trouble smiling at the crowd of gentlemen, their wives and mistresses, and the bare-breasted dancers. Most smile back and more than a few eyes linger, though he’s unsure if it’s from interest or recognition. He’s uncertain which would be worse, but he can’t help but preen a little at the attention. After months of enduring hateful glances and snarled threats he’s nearly grateful for the kindness in their curiosity.

He sips his drink and allows a broad-faced woman in a slinky silver dress to chat with him. She’s about three drinks ahead of him and she’s much too wrapped up in what she suspects her husband is up to in the back rooms. Louis resists suggesting that the woman leave him alone and go find out for herself, but he has no idea who her husband is and he couldn’t care less about the man’s penchant for gambling and whoring around. 

He catches sight of Dubuque dancing enthusiastically with a blonde girl and he tries not to smile at the earnestness with which Dubuque bobbles his head and snaps his fingers to the music. He wouldn’t admit it, but he has a nice time once the woman at the bar wanders away to find more lively conversation. He’d always liked music and getting lost in a crowd, and it’s easy enough to relax against the bar and make idle conversation with the various people that approach to introduce themselves.

Dubuque hadn’t been joking about his infamy, though he had certainly exaggerated with the term ‘celebrity’. Men are eager to introduce themselves and brag about their own criminal accomplishments and prison sentences, and Louis makes sure to look respectfully impressed as he absently dwells on his own status and the role it played in getting him a plane ticket out of French Guiana. He’s still trying to parse out the truth of Castili’s interest. In the beginning Louis had tried to convince himself that it was purely due to his talent, but after Papi’s revelation about Cormier he became convinced that getting at Papi was at least part of the appeal for Castili. But now that he’s met the man he’s less certain. Louis had helped Papi escape, but Castili had been welcoming and had wanted him to feel appreciated, even after he’d coerced Louis into signing away his fortune. A million francs was certainly a strong selling point, but Castili already has the bulk of it now, and Louis still finds himself treated with every courtesy when Castili easily could have resorted to threats or torture to get the rest.

He’s convinced that there must be something else, an angle he can’t put his finger on. But he takes a careful mouthful of _Soixante Quinze_ and convinces himself that it won’t matter, either way--he’ll be gone in seven weeks.

It’s half past nine o’clock by the time Castili arrives. He’s announced by a pleased murmur that ripples through the crowd, and Louis turns in time to watch the old man accept a kiss on the cheek from a dancer and smile with all of his teeth. Louis finishes his drink and thanks the bartender, and then slides away from the bar to wait on the sidelines. Castili takes notice of him immediately. There’s something sharp in his eyes, an edge that hadn’t been there this morning, and Louis’ stomach sinks.

But then Castili grins and approaches him to grip his arm and give him a friendly shake and Louis hates himself for the relief that blooms inside of him at Castili’s welcome. There’s something wrong but Castili isn’t angry, and Louis finds that his comfort is complicated. He needs to stay on Castili’s good side, but he reluctantly admits there’s more to it--he wants Castili to _like_ him.

The realization is sobering but he smiles warmly as Castili puts a hand on the small of his back and guides him toward the back rooms.

“What do you think?” Castili asks, gesturing around.

Louis’ smile sticks and he tries to look appropriately dazzled. “You’ve created quite the atmosphere.”

“You hungry?”

“Starving,” Louis says, and Castili laughs and ushers him into a small but ornate office. 

“Then let’s settle this quickly and go eat.”

Louis nods and sinks down into the plush chair opposite of the high-backed one on the other side of the desk, where Castili plops down and smiles at him. Louis tries to look relaxed.

“Nice haircut.”

“Thank you.”

“Will says you called him right up and demanded a barber.”

“I did.”

“Glad you know what’s what.” Castili flops his hands over the arms of his chair. “You’ll get some spending money. You can think of it as an allowance for your,” he gestures lazily, “various indulgences. Your rent will be paid for. Someone will handle your groceries--just leave a list for Will to pass along.”

Louis nods.

“Anything more than that, well, you just let me know, Louis.”

“Thank you,” he says again, gracious as he can manage.

Castili’s mouth quirks like he sees straight through him. “Sounds a bit like some sort of rent boy lifestyle, doesn’t it?”

Louis bites the inside of his cheek and shrugs.

“Well, I have no interest in sticking my dick in a man, if that puts your mind at ease. As for the rest? You’ll get used to it. I just want to make sure you’re being cared for. You’re providing a valuable service, after all.”

“I appreciate your generosity.”

“Well, it’s like I said--I’m a reasonable man. All I ask in return is that you tell me the truth.”

“Of course.”

“I don’t suffer liars, Louis.” Castili sinks back further into his chair. “I appreciate honesty. That’s part of the reason Papi’s not in the ground.” Louis frowns and Castili smiles at his confusion. “That night, I asked if he kept anything for himself. Did he tell you what he said to me?”

Louis thinks back and then shakes his head.

“‘Just a couple of the big ones.’ The balls on that kid.” Castili laughs and slaps the arm of his chair. Louis smiles weakly. “I thought he was joking. And I warned him--told him not to cross me. But I guess he already had by then.”

“You appreciated that he was telling the truth, even though you didn’t know it at the time.”

Castili points a thick finger at him. “You got it.”

“And now you’re cautioning me against the same.”

“Don’t ever fucking lie to me.”

“I won’t,” Louis lies.

“You fuck me over, I’ll make sure to make French Guiana seem like a goddamn honeymoon.”

“You brought me back to France, and for that I probably owe you my life.” Louis adjusts his glasses. “Technically speaking, you’ve saved my life many times over by sending Papillon away. If not for him, I’d have died the second night on the ship. And if not then, it could have been any of the subsequent nights.”

Castili considers him quietly. “You got attached.” Louis opens his mouth but Castili talks over him. “You stopped our Mr. Cormier from killing him. I understand you went as far as to bite Cormier like some rabid animal.”

“I’m grateful to Papillon. As I said, he protected me more times than I care to admit--I owe him my life. And I honor my debts.”

“Good. We’ll get along just fine, then.” Castili leans forward. “Well, how about some dinner?”

Louis nods, mouth dry, but only rises once Castili does. He allows himself to be guided back through the club and returns a few nods of acknowledgement as they make their way out. Lemoine is waiting by the door with two coats, and Louis accepts his with a quiet thank-you and slips it on, following Castili’s example and turning his collar up against the cold as they step out onto the street.

Louis is surprised that they’re not taking a car, but he’s glad for it. It had rained while he was in the club and he breathes in the smell of winter with pleasure.

“It’s not far,” Castili says absently, keeping a steady pace that Louis matches with ease. 

“I don’t mind a walk.”

“Good. You like Italian?”

“I do,” Louis says, keeping his face impassive as Castili studies him under the neon lights. 

“Good.”

Castili leads him past the _Moulin Rouge_ and through a brightly-lit courtyard, and then around the corner of a street Louis vaguely recognizes from a past trip to the city. He feels his chest squeeze with anxiety as he stares up at the building Castili approaches--he realizes that he’s been here before. He’d taken Clara for their second anniversary.

He blinks slowly at Castili, but the old man isn’t paying him any mind as a doorman greets them and permits them inside. Paranoia rakes little fingertips along the surface of his mind but it’s either a strange coincidence or Castili is a good actor, because he gives no indication of caring what Louis thinks of the place.

Louis tells himself not to be too surprised. It’s probably the most upscale Italian restaurant on this side of town, which makes it a predictable choice for both anniversary dinners and meetings for high ranking mobsters. But the fact that Louis even wonders if Castili could know about his tenuous connection to the place is a reminder of the possibility of Castili’s reach, and it helps to clear his head as they’re seated in a comfortable, discrete corner of the room.

Louis examines the restaurant with exaggerated interest as Castili orders for the both of them. Another gesture of power and control. Louis doesn’t doubt that he’ll enjoy whatever Castili chooses, though--it is a damn good restaurant, after all.

“So,” Castili says as the waiter gives an obnoxious half-bow and turns away. “Tell me about your conversation with the warden.”

It catches Louis off guard, just as it’s meant to. He searches Castili’s unsmiling eyes but doesn’t understand.

“I’ve never spoken with the warden personally,” he says slowly. Castili’s wrinkled face puckers with displeasure, and Louis scours his memory for what he would possibly have had to say to Warden Barrot. He thinks of Cormier and abruptly understands. “Ah, actually, I spoke with Deputy Warden Brioulet.”

Castili’s eyebrows raise impatiently.

“He wasn’t too pleased to hear about what your Mr. Cormier was up to,” Louis continues, pausing only to watch as the waiter returns with two fat wine glasses and a dark bottle. He waits until both of their glasses have been filled before meeting Castili’s unreadable stare. “He was even less pleased to find out that a guard was involved.”

Something in Castili relaxes. His expression isn’t friendly but his shoulders lower and he picks up his wine glass and takes a long drink. He sets it down hard and licks his lips afterward.

“And what,” he asks, eyes heavy, “inspired you to share that information with him?”

 _Be honest,_ Louis reminds himself, sensing obvious danger in the question.

“Your man laid his hands on me,” Louis says like it’s that simple. He reaches for his own glass and takes a healthy sip, nodding with approval at the way it sits on his tongue. It’s expensive, just like everything else Castili enjoys. “He was careless, letting me see that shipment. I thought perhaps I was doing you a favor.”

Castili’s flat eyes study him closely. “And my guard?”

That’s harder to explain. _He found out fast,_ Louis realizes, too fast to have been informed with anything less than a telephone call. The guard was probably detained for questioning, pending an investigation--he probably didn’t have access to a telephone. 

Papi had described the prison Castili’s dumping ground, hadn’t he?

Louis goes with his gut. “You surely have others on your payroll. That one was simply in my way.”

Castili considers that. He swirls his wine in his glass, takes a mouthful, and then shrugs while Louis tries not to sweat through his shirt.

“Poor Mr. Cormier,” Castili finally says, voice dripping with mockery. “The warden sent him in for two years of solitary because of his little scheme.”

Louis bites down on a bolt of satisfaction, aiming for nonchalance. “What was it that he did to get himself sent to French Guiana in the first place?” he asks after a moment. “He must have betrayed you in some capacity. He would be dead if he’d spoken to the authorities, so I’m left to assume that he stole from you.”

“In a way.”

“In which way?” Louis asks with playful curiosity.

“He killed one of my girls and then lied to me about it.”

Louis’ grin slips. 

“If he’d just had the balls to tell me upfront, he’d have worked it off--it’s not the first time someone’s gotten too rough with a girl. But like I said, I don’t suffer liars.”

It’s difficult to contain his horror at the cold-blooded dismissal of a life, but Louis manages to keep it off of his face. “I see.”

“Don’t worry, it wasn’t Nennete.”

Louis had prepared himself for hearing her name. He hadn’t anticipated the context, but he frowns and keeps Castili’s gaze in a perfect imitation of confusion, and Castili is quick to clarify.

“Papi’s girl.”

“Ah,” Louis says, smiling like he’s relieved to be caught up. “Yes, he mentioned that he was seeing one of your prostitutes.”

“Though I guess Papi wouldn’t care too much about Nennete now.” Castili laughs. “Now that he has you.”

Louis’ expression feels brittle and it takes an effort not to narrow his eyes at Castili’s teasing tone. “Our relationship was purely transactional,” he says with rehearsed nonchalance. “We came to a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

Castili’s eyes crinkle in the corners as he grins. “Doesn’t sound like you’re too different from my girls, then.”

Louis’ breath catches in his throat. That’s the second time Castili’s compared him to a whore in less than an hour. He fumbles his way through several branches of thought, unable to decide if he should play offended or amused. Castili leans in closer and speaks in a stage whisper.

“If something happens to those hands of yours and you’re no longer able to make forgeries, I’m sure we could come to a _mutually beneficial arrangement_. You’ve already been broken in, from what I understand.” Louis clenches his jaw and says nothing. “Oh sure, you may not pull in as much as a woman, but you’re an attractive man. And a famous one. I’m sure we could work out new terms for you to pay off your debt.”

A one-sided smile twists at Louis’ mouth. He allows himself to appreciate the complexity of the offer and the layers of threats within it. “Well. I’m glad you’re a flexible businessman,” he says lightly. “That’s a valuable skill to have. I’m beginning to understand how you’ve built up such an empire.”

Castili smiles at the compliment and somehow it feels like they’ve both scored a victory--Castili in asserting his power, and Louis in his ability to gracefully navigate the warning. Their food arrives before either can say another word, and Louis looks down at a steaming plate of risotto with keen interest. He’s had nothing but alcohol since breakfast. He glances up to see Castili tuck a silk napkin into his collar and nod in approval at his own plate.

They eat quietly. With a full stomach and too much to drink, Louis finds himself exhausted about halfway through. A quick look shows him that Castili is wide awake and in the mood for company. He hopes that the unpleasantness is settled between them, at least for the night, but Castili pours them both more wine and watches him with calculating eyes.

“Tell me, Louis, what was the worst part?”

Louis pauses, fork and knife politely poised, and for a moment pretends not to understand.

“Your time at the prison.”

Louis hums like he has to think it over, but he's already decided that he’s been honest enough for one night. He picks his wine glass up in a grandiose display of consideration.

“The food, I think. And the notable absence of wine.”

Castili makes a chortling noise. “Really. See now, I’m surprised. I would have thought it was being sodomized by a six-foot-something Croat.”

Louis holds his gaze and says nothing for a few moments, content to let Castili’s crudeness hang stagnant in the air between them. 

“Or having your guts jabbed, in an entirely different sort of way,” Castili tries again, sneering and looking monstrous in the dim ambience of the room. “I hear you’ve got yourself a little scar.”

Louis takes a prim sip of his wine, then pulls it away to examine it in the amber light. His head is swimming with anger and exhaustion, but he manages to pull off detached amusement just as well as Castili.

“No,” he says lightly, after just long of a hesitation to make it humorous. “Definitely the wine.”

Castili laughs, then slaps the table with his palm and leans back in his chair. He stares for a moment, likely trying to decide whether to push further, but then he smiles indulgently. “Well, then. Alright.”

Louis feels distantly triumphant, like he’s passed a necessary test, but it’s hard to keep his eyes from drooping as Castili begins droning about his blossoming friendship with some politician he’s never heard of. Louis listens and nods and asks a question here and there to demonstrate his respect, but he’s unspeakably relieved when Castili takes pity on him.

“You’ve had a day,” the old man says with sympathy. Louis nods and hopes it’s not a display of weakness to agree, but Castili seems unconcerned either way. He wipes his mouth with his napkin and then stands, and he leads Louis out of the restaurant without even a murmur about the bill.

Louis feels ill with fatigue by the time they make it back to Castili’s club, and he frowns up at the obscene smile of the creature whose mouth forms the main entrance. 

_Tacky,_ he grumbles in his own head, and he stands and shivers as Castili leans in to speak with a goon at the door. The man slips inside and Louis expects to follow, but Castili wanders back to the sidewalk and pulls out a cigarette and a metal lighter.

Louis resists the urge to sit down on the curb and put his head in his hands. He’s tired beyond belief and the wine has made him feel muddled and loose-minded, and he only understands that they’re waiting for Dubuque when the younger man pops out and spares them a quick nod before trotting down the street.

Louis turns to Castili and watches as he blows smoke out of his nostrils. He closes his eyes for a moment at the familiar smell of cigarette smoke. It’s not the same smell as the ones Papi had at the prison, but--

“Will’ll give you a ride home.”

Louis reluctantly opens his eyes. “Alright. Thank you.”

“Come back tomorrow once you’ve had some rest and I’ll show you your set-up.”

Louis nods.

“You can start once you get back from Marseille.” Castili takes a long drag and then nods toward the street, and Louis watches a black car swing around to idle at the curb. “That’s your ride,” Castili says, then fixes Louis with a tight-lipped smile. “Have a good night.”

Louis dips his head and says the same, then turns and slides into the backseat of Dubuque’s car. Dubuque starts twittering about his evening with the blonde woman immediately and Louis is just as quick to block him out. He’s half asleep by the time they arrive at his building but be refuses Dubuque’s offer to escort him up.

“You sure?” Dubuque asks, looking incredulous as he stares at Louis over his shoulder. “Can’t have you taking a tumble down those stairs, Mr. Dega!”

“I'll be fine, thank you,” Louis insists. He climbs out of the vehicle before Dubuque can argue. 

The stairs are intimidating but he manages to get to the third floor without breaking his neck. He fumbles with his keys and lets himself into his apartment, allowing the door slam shut behind him. He locks it and then begins stripping off his overly-expensive clothes as he crosses toward the bedroom. He pulls off his glasses and collapses onto the comforter, and he’s asleep the moment his head hits the pillow.

✧ ✧ ✧

It’s difficult for Henri to sleep with the knowledge that Celier is one room away, especially given that there isn’t a door to divide them. He’d lingered in the common area with Julot for most of the evening and then laid awake in bed until his eyes had closed of their own volition. He’d startled awake at several times throughout the night half expecting to find Celier looming over him, but Celier is either biding his time or he’s recognized that he’d crossed a line and has forgiven Henri for the subsequent punch to the face.

He’s probably biding his time.

He’s gone by the time that Henri wakes up, which is equal parts a relief and a concern. Julot is sound asleep, laying open-mouthed on his back with his shirt off, and Henri smiles and shakes his head at the sight.

He’s only too happy to agree when Marcel finds him and asks him to accompany him into town. Marcel nods with approval and points at Henri.

“You’re the only one without tattoos all over your neck and face. You, they will not recognize.”

Henri acknowledges the wisdom in that as he climbs into the front seat of Marcel’s car. It’s difficult to avoid thinking about the fact that they’d had a dead man in the bed of the truck a few days ago, but Marcel turns out to be lively company and Henri finds himself lured into a conversation about France. 

“I’ve never been,” Marcel informs him, accelerating onto the main road. “My father moved here with my mother, and then my sister was born, and then I was born.”

“Have you thought about going?”

Marcel barks out a laugh. “On a pig farmer’s salary?”

Henri shrugs and turns to stare out the window. 

“What about you? Is that where you plan to go?”

Henri hesitates and then offers another shrug, pulling a face like he’s not sure. “Maybe.”

“No plans to stay here and raise hogs, eh?”

“Not really.”

Marcel chuckles and shakes his head, like he knows Henri’s thinking about dismembering that guard and watching them toss the pieces to the animals. “Well, there is always chicken farming.”

“Thought about it,” Henri answers with an honest smile, remembering his conversation with Dega. 

“But you want to go home. Even though you are now a wanted man.”

“Paris isn’t home anymore. But here isn’t, either.”

Marcel nods and flexes his big hands on the steering wheel and then changes the subject, and Henri half-listens as he watches the jungle flash by. He feels overwarm but relaxed by the time they make it into town, and he finds himself surprised by the size of it as he stares out at the crowded street.

“What day is it?” he thinks to ask.

“Friday,” Marcel grunts, annoyed at having to wait for a man and his four children to cross the street. 

“Friday,” Henri repeats quietly. “Friday the what?”

“Friday the sixth. Of November, before you ask.”

Marcel swerves around the family and doesn’t speak again until he parks outside of a marketplace. Henri climbs out of the truck and looks around curiously. Marcel waves him forward and they walk through the stalls, and Henri’s relieved that no one seems to notice them. There seem to be a healthy mix of locals and French colonists and he blends in easily enough, and he finds that the only attention he gets are the lingering eyes of women. He thinks a man looks twice as well, but he doesn’t seem interested so much as annoyed by the way his wife stares. 

Henri tries not to smile. It’s fun being in a crowd again, especially one that doesn’t smell like labor-sweat and shit, and he watches with amusement as a young woman with her hair stacked high approaches while Marcel argues with a vendor. 

She smiles sweetly and strikes up a conversation about the weather. It takes an effort not to complain about French Guiana and his hatred for the heat, but she doesn’t seem especially interested in what he has to say either way. Her gaze loiters and the curve of her mouth invites his to do the same. She’s a bit plain-looking by Parisian standards, but she’s downright beautiful compared to most of the faces he’s seen in the past few months--with the notable exception of one. 

Henri’s relieved that it doesn’t take an effort to keep his eyes from roving. He keeps his gaze resolutely on her face and pretends to like South America for the sake of conversation. His charm returns in full force but she eventually drifts away, likely disappointed at his polite company, and he tries not to feel too pleased with himself. He’d known he’d been telling Dega the truth. He’d never doubted his promise to not run off with the first girl he found, but it’s nice to have his faith in himself validated. Marcel takes one glance at his self-satisfied smile and cocks an eyebrow, but he doesn’t ask. Instead, he throws a bag of rice at Henri, curses at the vendor, and wanders to the next stall. 

Henri trails him and grins at everyone who looks his way. He feels lighter than he has in days, buoyed by the proof that he’s out, that he’s free, that he can walk through a market without drawing the wrong sort of attention--and, of course, that he can resist the right sort of attention with ease. He lets Marcel use him as a pack mule and wonders if he should tell Dega. Would it seem like bragging? What would he even say? _I didn’t even stare at a woman’s perky breasts, you know,_ or _I looked into a girl’s pretty blue eyes and thought only of you_. 

No, Dega would be annoyed with the sentimentality. 

But Henri allows himself to indulge in the fantasy of his relieved delight all the same.

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis leans his chin on his palm and stares as the countryside whips by. He’s always liked trains. There’s something comforting about the gentle sway and the muted hum of the car traveling over the tracks, and he finds himself lulled into a near doze.

He’d spent most of the day before sleeping and then allowing an ugly Englishman to try to explain the outdated forging equipment in one of the larger back rooms of Castili’s club. Louis had made his disapproval into a performance and Castili had smiled indulgently when he’d requested a better printing press and for the other man to be sent out. 

“No more defense bonds,” Castili had said after Lemoine had ushered the English forger away. “We’ll have you work directly on bank notes. Easier to distribute, and you’ve created quite enough notoriety with bonds. It’ll be harder to sell counterfeit ones now that you’re back in town.”

Louis had allowed himself a moment of pride and had agreed--bank notes were worth less than bonds but were moderately easier to make and much easier pass off to the public. That settled, Castili had clapped him on the back and led him to the bar, where he’d gotten Louis drunk for the second night in a row.

He knows he needs to be careful with Castili’s penchant for pushing drinks on him. He’s never been prone to secret-spilling, not even when he’s driven past the point of stumbling and slurring his words, but there’s too much at stake. One thing said in just the wrong way could be his undoing.

The train car rattles and Louis glances up to see Dubuque lost in a novel. He feels a twinge of envy as Dubuque turns a page of _Die Maschinenstürmer_ \--he hasn’t had access to a book in months, and he hadn’t even thought to take one for the trip. He nearly asks Dubuque if he has anything else to read, but it feels too much like asking for a favor. He decides to buy a novel in Marseille for the ride back to Paris and then goes back to staring out the window.

He smiles into his palm when he realizes that the next train he takes out of Paris will take him to Lille, where he’ll find Papi and then do his best to never let the other man out of his sight again. He tries to picture their reunion. If everything goes to plan, Papi will already be waiting for him. They’d discussed the rental of a room at Grand Hôtel Bellevue, which Louis had frequented twice on business in the past. The room would be rented under Julot’s name, whether Julot himself was present or not, and all Louis would need to do is to ask the receptionist to ring his room and come down to meet an old friend.

Louis closes his eyes and relies on memory to set the fantasy--he pictures the high white walls and gold trim and Papillon stepping through the archway. Would he greet Louis with a handshake, or an embrace? Surely not a kiss, not in public. He abruptly feels his face heat up and he could laugh at himself; he may as well be a schoolboy with a crush. He opens his eyes again to find Dubuque glancing up at him.

“We’re almost there,” he says, holding his book in one hand and playing with his mustache in the other. “No time for a nap, Mr. Dega.”

“I wasn’t attempting to nap,” Louis argues, but Dubuque only smiles like he doesn’t believe him and goes back to reading. Louis fidgets with annoyance and doesn’t close his eyes again except to blink.

✧ ✧ ✧

“Welcome back to Marseille,” Dubuque says loudly as they step out of the station, mercifully unburdened, as Dubuque had thought far enough ahead to pay to have their overnight bags taken to the hotel.

They’d left Paris early enough that it’s barely mid-morning, and Louis lifts his face and savors the sweet ocean air. A part of him aches at being back, and for a moment he’s nearly lost in a strike of grief. He’d managed to lock the door on his memories of Clara well enough, but being back in Marseille, back in the place he’d called home for so long, the last place he’d been truly happy--it’s nearly enough to bring him to his knees. 

“So,” Dubuque prompts, sounding just a hair too eager. “Where are we going?”

What he really means is _where is the money?_

“There’s a safety deposit box in a bank just past Opéra de Marseille that I need to access,” Louis says with rehearsed ease. He’d practiced the sequence in his head extensively over the last few days and he tells himself that he’s ready. He’s mapped everything out and he’s prepared a litany of excuses in case Dubuque suspects something. “We’ll take the tram to the opera house and then walk the rest of the way.”

Dubuque nods quickly, likely pleased at Louis’ compliance, and he allows Louis to lead the way without question. They wait quietly for the tram and then squeeze onto it with a crowd of bright-eyed tourists and school children. It’s less than a fifteen minute ride but Louis runs the route through his mind again and again, and he feels his heartbeat begin to pound as they near Opéra de Marseille. He has to be quick. He has to be clever. He points out streets as they pass and then informs Dubuque of the ones they’ll need to take to get to the bank, informing him that they’ll be able to pass right by Opéra de Marseille like it’s a privilege. Dubuque makes a visible effort to look interested but Louis knows that the man couldn’t give less of a shit about opera. Louis sympathizes. He’s never cared much for it either.

He allows Dubuque to leave the tram first and then drags his heels as they walk, looking around with exaggerated wonder and occasionally commenting on a memory that a store or building elicits. Dubuque never strays more than few paces ahead but he stops looking behind him after about two blocks, clearly annoyed at Louis’ pace but content to trust that he’s following. Louis watches closely as Dubuque glances up at the street names to confirm that they’re heading the right way, and one block before they reach the opera house Louis ducks into a bustling café.

He’s frequented this particular coffee shop on more than one occasion and for a moment he’s worried that he’ll be recognized and stopped for a chat, but he keeps his head down and he’s able to dart through the familiar building and out the back, where he walks as quickly as he can to cut through to the opposite side of the block. He’s sweating in his coat by the time he reaches his actual bank, which is two streets away from the one he’d sent Dubuque toward.

He smooths down the long curls on the top of his head and takes a breath, and then enters the bank with his head up. He finds the most timid-looking attendant in the room and then loudly demands to be taken to his security box. The man stammers, collects the necessary information, and then leads Louis into one of the three small vaults with a nervous pep in his step. 

“A briefcase,” Louis says coldly as the man tries to duck out. “I’ll need one.”

It’s not an unusual request--Louis has moved his money several times before and has never been denied one, and the attendant turns on his heel to retrieve it for him without hesitation. Louis deflates with relief and casts a quick glance at the clock, then pulls out approximately half of the francs out of his security box. He forms the small bundles of bills in neat stacks on the table in the center of the room and returns the deposit box back into the wall, locking it with a wave of apprehension. 

As long as nothing goes wrong, he’ll be back for the rest.

The attendant paces quickly back into the vault and brandishes a dark brown briefcase with a smile that tells Louis that he wants to please him. Louis nods briskly and takes the case, then opens it and begins filling it. The man watches with curious eyes as a quarter of a million francs are laid inside. 

Louis snaps the briefcase closed, thanks the attendant, and then stalks out of the bank with the demeanor of a man who has important places to be.

✧ ✧ ✧

It takes Dubuque much longer than Louis had anticipated to find him.

Louis has been waiting near the black gate of Opéra de Marseille for nearly forty minutes before Castili’s lackey pushes his way out of the crowd and approaches him with a red face. Louis looks at him with all the indignation that he can muster--which is a lot, as it happens.

“Where have you been?” he demands before Dubuque can so much as open his mouth.

Dubuque flounders, wide-eyed with disbelief. “Looking for you!”

“I turn my back for one moment and you’re gone.”

Dubuque takes a moment to try to catch his breath and assess the situation but Louis is sure not to give him the chance.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting? You’re supposed to be here to assist me. I had to retrieve this on my own, and then I had to wait here for you for nearly an hour.”

“I--” Dubuque begins, but his attention snags on the briefcase that Louis had briefly swung aloft. “You got it.”

“Of course,” Louis says snippily, summoning from the deep well of anger he’s fed over the last few months. “Are you simple? This is the reason that we’ve come to Marseille, if you care to recall.”

Dubuque’s flush deepens. He looks adequately chastised but Louis isn’t ready to relent. 

“What if I’d been accosted standing here? I can’t even imagine Mr. Castili’s reaction to hearing that his money had been snatched right out of our hands. What good are you if you can’t even help me obtain and protect this?”

“You were right behind me,” Dubuque says with alarm. “I don’t know how--”

“Just take it.” Louis shoves the briefcase into Dubuque’s hands, his eyes severe. 

Dubuque holds on to the case tightly and offers Louis an uncertain glance. “Mr. Dega, believe me when I say that I had no intention of leaving you to handle this alone.”

Louis pauses and stares just long enough for Dubuque to begin to squirm. Then he deflates and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “It’s forgiven. We’re fortunate that nothing happened.” Dubuque nods and starts to say something, but Louis cuts him off like he hadn’t noticed. “I won’t speak of this to Mr. Castili,” he shares, making it sound like generosity. “I believe you when you say that it was a mistake and there’s no sense in getting him worked up. Now, let’s get to the hotel so that you can put that somewhere safe.”

Dubuque takes a breath. He doesn’t look as relieved as Louis had hoped, but Louis thinks that there is something like gratitude in his eyes as he nods again and holds the briefcase close. “Yeah, I think that’s a good idea.”

Louis begins walking back toward the tram and tries to get his fluttering heart rate under control. Dubuque is careful to stay at his side this time.

✧ ✧ ✧

Dubuque is immediately on edge when Louis announces that he’s going for a walk. It’s been over an hour since they’d checked into the hotel and Dubuque had been half asleep on the little sofa by the window when Louis had stood and put his shoes on.

“I’ll get lunch while I’m out,” he says, turning to watch as Dubuque’s brow lowers in a likely attempt to plan an argument. “So, feel free to grab whatever it is that you would like while I’m gone. There are no shortage of excellent places to eat nearby.”

“I should go with you.”

Louis pins him with a sharp look. “I’m perfectly capable of navigating my own city. Though, Castili has promised me spending money. Just enough for lunch and a book. I plan to read on the trip back to Paris tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?” Dubuque rises and frowns at him. “I’m pretty sure Castili wanted me to--”

“I’ll be fine.”

Dubuque doesn’t look convinced. Louis is reluctant to tell the truth--or part of it, at least--but he knows that it will work. “I need to visit my wife’s resting place. And for that I desire privacy.”

“Oh,” Dubuque says, looking taken aback. Louis tries not to smile at the thought that he’s likely not half as easy to manage as Dubuque had assumed. “That’s right. If you’re sure--”

“I am.”

Dubuque nods and reaches into his pocket to fish out his wallet. He hands Louis more than enough francs to get him through the day.

“I’ll call the hotel and ring this room if I run into any difficulty,” Louis informs him, tucking the francs away and gathering his coat. Dubuque watches unhappily as he puts it on and turns to the door.

“Be careful,” Dubuque warns, but Louis is reasonably sure he means _don’t get yourself in trouble,_ and not _don’t you dare cross us_. He tells himself that Dubuque doesn’t suspect anything, and he ignores him in favor of opening the door and pacing down the hallway to the stairs with practiced nonchalance.

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis stops by what had been his favorite bookstore back before his arrest. It’s small but always well stocked, and he’s intimately familiar with the area.

He suspects that Dubuque may be tailing him on Castili’s orders. The streets are crowded enough on a weekend that Louis can’t check without looking conspicuous, so he pretends to browse bookshelves as he peers out the window and waits to see if Dubuque wanders into the store or passes by on the street. He waits almost fifteen minutes but there’s no sign of him. If he is following Louis, he’s smart enough to hang back and wait for him to leave the store. Louis still hasn’t gotten a good read on Dubuque’s intelligence, but he’s feeling reasonably confident that Dubuque is more likely to bumble his way into Louis’ sight than stay hidden.

He decides to leave out the employee exit in the back, smiling an apology at the confused clerk as he passes.

His next stop is a telephone booth, where he has to take several minutes to gather his courage before he opens the phonebook and begins trying to find where Clara has been buried. He’s surprised at how far down the list of prestigious cemeteries he has to browse before someone confirms that Clara Marie Dega is among their dead. He takes the tram across town with his heart in his throat, nervous about what feelings will come at the sight his wife’s grave. He pushes his anxiety aside in favor of focusing on his anger at whoever put her in a second-class cemetery--his lawyer, most likely.

It begins to rain as he departs the tram and he smiles grimly up at the sky. _How appropriate,_ he thinks, stuffing his hands into the deep pockets of his coat and following along the sidewalk until he finds the entrance to the property. It’s large but ultimately unimpressive. The groundskeeping could use work, but he makes his way to the keeper’s hall and begrudgingly notes that the plots themselves seem well maintained.

He shakes water from his hair and coat and steps inside the solemn-looking building, and he pauses to gaze into a display room that houses coffins and urns. He wonders which one Clara has been buried in. It wouldn’t matter to her either way, but he hopes it was something nice. He checks in with a tired-looking young man at a desk, who flips through a roster for an annoyingly long time before informing him of the location of Clara Dega’s grave plot. The reality of it all hits Louis hard. He doesn’t even manage a thank-you as he turns on his heel and finds his way back outside.

It’s only drizzling by the time he finds her. 

He stands and stares down at the humble headstone and feels carved out inside. It’s unfathomable that Clara’s down there, beneath the still-growing grass.

Louis takes off his glasses to rub at his eyes. He doesn’t cry, though he wishes that he could. He feels the grief inside of him and thinks that tears would likely feel like a release, but nothing comes. He wipes his glasses, puts them back on, and takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I should have been here. I should have protected you.”

Predictably, no voice answers from the heavens. 

Louis stands for a long time in the light misting of rain, his thoughts spun inward. If only he’d never been arrested. If only he’d gotten out sooner. If only Léon had been there--

Louis’ teeth clench. 

Léon. His son-of-a-bitch, wife-stealing lawyer. Louis had reconciled most of his feelings of betrayal at the prison--he understands Clara’s reasons, just as he guiltily understands that he’d likely have gotten wrapped up in Papillon either way, which makes him a hypocrite. But the fact remains that Léon had stalled his appeal in order to seduce Clara, and now Clara is six feet beneath the soggy earth in a dress and a coffin Louis hadn’t had the opportunity to select.

He won’t hit Léon. He most likely won’t even raise his voice. But he wants to make the man look him in the eye and acknowledge that he’d betrayed them both. 

Léon’s law office is in the opposite direction as his bank but he doesn’t think twice about which direction he needs to go. He touches Clara’s headstone with his fingertips and mutters another apology as he passes.

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis stares up at the dark, narrow building squeezed between two equally prestigious offices and hesitates. The names _Vigneau_ and _Mesnard_ are printed in professional blocking on the door, which is a surprise--his lawyer’s surname had been in place of Mesnard’s the last time he’d come, not even three weeks before his arrest. Louis hadn’t thought to call ahead. What if Léon had moved away in his absence? The thought that his lawyer may have quit or relocated due to losing Clara sends a fresh chill of guilt through him, but he steels himself and pushes into the lobby still dripping wet with rain.

The interior is just as he remembered--subdued but welcoming, understated but expensive. He’d never had to actually wait in the reception room before, but there’s no one at the secretarial desk and so he sits and examines the decor.

He waits for five minutes and checks his watch. It’s almost half past noon, and he realizes that he hadn’t been at the cemetery for as long as he’d thought. The secretary is likely still at lunch. 

_And yet,_ he thinks, _the door was unlocked._

Louis frowns and rises, leaving his damp coat on the chair as he makes his way past reception and down a familiar hallway. He pauses before what had been Léon’s office and notes that Mesnard’s name is on that door now, too. It’s empty. Louis moves on to the corner office and waits for a moment, listening to someone rustle around inside. 

He knocks twice with confidence and when it opens he aims his most professional smile at Vigneau, who is every bit as dull-eyed and gangly as he has always been.

“Mr. Dega,” Vigneau says with obvious surprise. 

Louis tries not to be too pleased at being remembered--it’s been a few years, but he’d met with Léon and Vigneau together a handful of times over drinks.

“Mr. Vigneau,” he greets in return, and graciously dips his head and moves inside the office when the man steps back and gestures his welcome.

“I didn’t realize that you were back in the country--”

“Three days now,” Louis says, still smiling. He sits at Vigneau’s prompting but shakes his head when offered a glass of scotch. 

“Well! That is wonderful. Welcome back--”

“Thank you. I’m sorry to disturb you, I was actually looking for Léon.”

A complicated series of expressions cross Vigneau’s face. He looks like he wants to ask a question or three but, “oh,” is all that he comes up with.

“I’m not here to accost him,” Louis says in a way that sounds like a joke.

Vigneau’s look of tempered horror doesn’t abate like Louis had expected, but it does become more confused.

“Did he retire?”

“Ah. Well. In a manner of speaking,” Vigneau hedges, taking a too-large gulp of his liquor. “Mr. Dega, I’m sorry to be the one to inform you, but Léon has passed away.”

Louis stares far too intently for far too long to be considered strictly polite. 

“Excuse me?”

“Forgive me, it’s silly to think that you would have known, having been, well, incarcerated a continent away.”

Louis turns his head to frown at the wall. He feels a stir of unease creep around his insides like a stray beetle probing its way through the dirt.

“What happened?”

Vigneau finishes his glass and looks like he wants to either reach for the bottle again or bolt out of the room, but his sunken eyes catch Louis’ when he turns back and he offers sympathy in the downturn of his mouth. “Léon took his own life.”

Louis blinks slowly, uncomprehending. 

“I’m sorry, how hard it must be for you to--well, what I mean is, given that you were…” Vigneau struggles along and Louis offers him no assistance. 

“When?”

“A few months ago. Not long after your wife’s passing, actually. He hung himself from the stairwell in his building.”

Louis closes his eyes. 

“He didn’t even leave a note.”

“Didn’t he?” Louis asks, tongue thick with some unknowable emotion. “He sent me a letter.”

“He did?” Vigneau’s mouth hangs agape for a moment before he recovers. “I see. Well, I suppose he must have felt guilty, for--”

“Yes,” Louis answers about two shades too harshly. “I imagine that he would feel guilty. If not for intending to marry my wife, then certainly for stalling my appeal to do so.”

Vigneau’s eyes bulge. “He what?”

“Come now, Richard, don’t play coy. You were his business partner, you must have known.”

Vigneau shakes his head, slowly at first and then with fervor. “Not at all! Of course not! Léon was working on your case until the end. Why, just a few days before Clara was--before Clara passed, he’d come to me with a draft.”

“Draft or not, he didn’t want my appeal to succeed. He said as much in his letter.”

“Then I don’t know what to tell you, Mr. Dega.”

“Are you saying that he did not intend to marry Clara?”

Vigneau gapes in disbelief. “How could you say such a thing?”

“He confessed it.”

Vigneau shakes his head again, looking lost. “He cared for her, certainly, and I do know that they became close in your absence, but he never spoke of marriage to me and he never once indicated that he wanted you to remain in that horrible place.”

“What, then?” Louis asks, exasperated. “Are you suggesting that he lied to me? Why in the world would he--?”

“I know how upsetting this must be. But, really, Mr. Dega, I don’t know what to say. The draft that he outlined was solid. Perhaps it wasn’t his best work but he certainly wasn’t playing to lose.”

Louis frowns and Vigneau frowns back, equally baffled. 

“Do you still have the letter? If I might see it--”

“It was destroyed at the prison.”

Vigneau looks vaguely uncomfortable, perhaps at the reminder that the man sitting before him had recently been a convict. Louis swallows hard and stares and tries to get his thoughts in order, but he understands that there’s nothing more Vigneau can offer him.

Louis slowly stands and extends his hand. Vigneau rises and shakes it firmly.

“Thank you for your time.”

“Of course, Mr. Dega. If there’s anything I can help you with--”

“No. But thank you.” 

Louis nods in what he hopes is a respectful fashion before retreating through the hall, pausing only to grab his coat before hurrying out into the rain. He makes it around the corner before realizing that the drizzle has turned into a downpour while he’d been inside, but he doesn’t pull his coat on. He stands against the ornate brickwork of the next building and shivers and thinks.

Vigneau must be stupid, or mistaken. Or a gifted liar. He’d either been oblivious to Léon’s intentions or he’d been involved, and was now denying it all to avoid culpability. 

And yet. Louis has always considered himself gifted with reading people, and he hadn’t picked up on any obvious signs of deception from Vigneau. _Which leaves ignorance_ , he thinks, before spiraling into a darker thought. He hadn’t noticed when his own friend had sold him out to the authorities, either--maybe he isn’t all that great at picking up on manipulation after all. 

_Which doesn’t bode well for working with Castili,_ he thinks, grimacing as he finally tugs his coat over his wet shirt. It’s useless now, he’s hopelessly soaked, but standing in the rain without it on likely makes him look like a lunatic. 

He begins a slow, cold walk back to the tram. He still has work to do and he can’t lose focus. But--Léon and Clara, both dead within what seems like weeks of one another. Unease rears back up inside of him and he abruptly thinks of Léon’s hand on his shoulder. Léon had been waiting for him at the forefront on that walk from the holding cells down to the ship, and he’d reached out to Louis first, before even Clara. His touch had been intimate, it had been warm. Louis absently boards the tram with a handful of equally miserable-looking passengers and remembers back to the night Léon had propositioned him. It had been winter then, too. They’d been drinking in Léon’s office, side by side on his beautiful but uncomfortable sofa beneath the window, and Léon’s hand had found its way to his thigh. Louis, drunk, had begun to laugh it off when Léon had turned to him with hope in his eyes, and then he had known that Léon had been serious. But Louis had been married, and he had been terrified of the consequences that came with a homosexual relationship even aside from that, and so he’d played it off like a silly joke to allow Léon to save face at the rejection.

Léon had never acted outside of the boundaries of their friendship after that. But he ultimately had managed to seduce the _other_ Dega in his life.

Louis allows a pained smile to twist his mouth. 

Louis could almost believe that Léon was naïve enough to put his appeal through in the hope that the three of them could _work something out_ once Louis returned. But Léon had explicitly said he’d stalled in his duty to get Louis home. Louis stares past a ruddy-cheeked woman and tries to think back. He can’t recall the exact wording. He’d been so focused on the news about Clara that he he’d only taken the rest in at face value. Had there been something more to it? For a moment he wishes that Papi hadn’t burned the damn thing, but then realizes that he wouldn’t have had the chance to bring it with him either way.

He startles when someone pushes past to exit in a hurry, and he takes a moment to try to gather himself. He needs to get back to his bank, extract the remaining francs, and redeposit them elsewhere. And then he needs to show up at the hotel with a full belly and a book, too, or risk having to explain himself to Dubuque.

✧ ✧ ✧

It’s easier than Louis might have thought to open a bank account under a false name, but he supposes that no one is eager to cross-check his information and find fault with it after he handed over a briefcase with two hundred thousand francs nestled inside.

He sits stiffly, uncomfortable and damp in his sodden clothes, but smiles his best smile when the gentleman attendant returns and beams at him.

“Alright, you’re all set. Your investment has been deposited in full.”

He hands Louis a deposit slip, which Louis plans to rip up and throw out at the earliest opportunity. 

“We appreciate your business, Mr. Guittou.”

“Thank you for your assistance,” he murmurs, standing and throwing his rain-heavy coat over his arm.

“I think you’ll find our services very satisfactory, sir.”

“And you’re certain that I can withdraw from any of your branches?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m considering moving to Bordeaux.”

“An excellent choice, Mr. Guittou.”

Louis nods, hopeful that he hasn’t left enough breadcrumbs for Castili to follow even if his deception is somehow discovered one day. He shakes the attendant’s hand and wanders back out into the rain feeling achy but content. It’s nearly two o’clock by the time he departs the tram again, this time intent on picking up a book. He selects a store he’s never been to before, then grabs the first unfamiliar novel he sees and sets his mind on finding something to eat.

✧ ✧ ✧

Dubuque frowns at him from the bed as he lets himself into the room. Louis frowns back.

“Shoes?” he asks, eyeing the man’s dapper pair of slips-ons with dismay. “On the bed?”

Dubuque shrugs and swings his legs off of the comforter. “What took you so long? Why are you so wet?”

“It’s raining,” Louis deadpans, moving across the room to hang his coat up.

Dubuque makes a noise of exasperation and Louis takes a moment to sneak a quick feel of the other man’s jacket. It’s dry. He hopes that means that Dubuque hadn’t tried to tail him, but he realizes that Castili could have any number of eyes in the city. But Louis knows that he had been careful. He’s certain that he hadn’t been followed to the first bank, much less the second. 

“I see you helped yourself to room service,” he observes, unbuttoning his shirt and staring pointedly at the scraps of something meaty on a plate on the end table.

“Well, you took off,” Dubuque grumbles, “and I couldn’t leave the money here by itself. And like you said, not a good idea to wander the streets with it, either.”

“How very responsible of you,” Louis sighs. “Were you planning on retiring to your own room at some point? I’d like to rinse off and rest.”

Dubuque arches his eyebrows and shoots him a look that Louis has come to translate into something like, _alright, Princess_. He understands now that Dubuque thinks him spoiled, and lazy, and likely not worth the trouble Castili has invested. Louis toes off his shoes and is pleased to find that he doesn’t particularly care.

“Alright,” Dubuque says after a long moment. “I’ll be right across the hall. You be sure to knock and let me know if you want to head out again, okay?”

“You have my word,” Louis says without looking at him. 

He waits and watches the rain patter against the window pane as Dubuque collects the briefcase and his coat, but Louis can hardly bring himself to move even after he hears his door close and the one across the way open and slam shut.

 _I really do need to get out of these clothes,_ he thinks, but instead he sinks back onto the bed and closes his eyes.

✧ ✧ ✧

After a long day at the market and chasing pigs around, Henri is glad to accept when Marcel invites them to dinner with his family.

Julot likewise enthusiastic but Celier shrugs and shakes his head. Henri eyes him with great suspicion and is quick to make an excuse to stop by his room before they leave. He pockets the francs and Dega’s cloth and re-emerges in the one other shirt Marcel provided him, citing a need to freshen up for polite company. Julot laughs and doesn’t offer to do the same, even though he smells at least twice as bad. Celier says nothing as Marcel wishes him a good night, and Henri feels sharp eyes on his back as they follow the farmer out of the worker’s building and to his truck.

Marcel is kind enough to offer Henri the front seat. Julot squawks in protest but Marcel laughs.

“You should have changed, too,” he jokes.

“I see how it is,” Julot counters, raising his voice as he climbs into the truck bed. “You two go off on your little shopping trip and--”

Marcel abruptly accelerates and Julot curses, and then his complaints are buried under the noise of gravel and dirt crunching under the wheels. Henri grins and shakes his head, watching as the hog farm disappears behind them. He spares a thought to be worried about what Celier might be up to, but Henri has everything he needs in his pocket--there’s nothing for Celier to do alone on the farm.

 _Except find another knife,_ he thinks grimly.

They arrive at Marcel’s home shortly before dark. His wife takes a shine to Henri immediately but regards the tattoos on Julot’s eyelids with great apprehension, and Marcel’s two teenaged boys pepper them both with questions about the prison until Marcel slaps the elder son across the back of the head and tells him to shut up. Henri finds himself appreciating the unexpected companionship of the family as they eat a mercifully pork-free meal and drink cheap beer, and despite his concerns about what Celier’s up to he’s glad that the other man stayed behind. 

It’s a petty thing to be grateful for, but he would have spoiled the mood.

Julot blows Marcel’s wife a kiss on the way out and earns himself a spot in the back of the truck again for his cheekiness. Henri is pleased to climb into the passenger seat again until Marcel brings up Henri’s love life five minutes into the drive.

“Julot tells me you have a lover waiting for you,” the pig farmer declares out of the blue.

Henri feels a headache coming on. “Something like that,” he hedges.

“She must be beautiful.”

Henri clears his throat and curses Julot’s big mouth. “You could say that.”

“I was wondering why you did not appreciate the women earlier today. You had their attention.” He glances at Henri, who can see relief in his eyes despite the darkness of the truck cabin. “I thought maybe you were a homosexual.”

Marcel turns back to the road just in time to miss witnessing Henri’s mouth twist with anger at the tone in his voice. 

“You have a problem with it if I was?”

Marcel shoots him another quick look and laughs. “I would not let a dirty cocksucker stay on my farm, work with my pigs!”

Henri’s headache blooms into a migraine. “You fed a dead man to them--”

“Yes. And what does that tell you about what I think about homosexuals?” 

“That you’re a goddamn asshole.”

Marcel chokes on his spit and then slaps the steering wheel and laughs, mistaking Henri’s ire for teasing. “I hear it is not uncommon in Paris for a man to take up with another man. I see witnessing that has confused you.”

Henri shakes his head and bites the inside of his cheek. The voice that sounds like Dega is whispering again, warning him to shut the fuck up.

 _He’ll turn you in,_ his inner voice says. _He’ll report you as an escapee if you give him a reason to hate you._

He abruptly understands that maybe Julot hadn’t just been running his mouth. He pictures Marcel approaching Julot after they’d returned from town, asking about Henri and his predilections, and Julot wisely skirting the truth.

 _He was probably protecting me,_ he thinks with relief.

“Well, you’ve got nothing to worry about either way, Marcel. You’re definitely not my type.”

The farmer takes it as a joke and barks out another laugh, just as he’s supposed to, but Henri’s insides pucker and curl at having to hide a part of what he is. He isn’t ashamed of his attraction to men, certainly not any more than he’d been of dating a prostitute, and he despises having to lie about Dega.

“Good, good. Then we’ll have no problems.” 

Reassured, Marcel chatters about his ugly wife and idiot sons for the rest of the drive. Henri leans his head against the window and pretends to doze until they reach the farm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote out this chapter, decided to cut out the Marseille trip and rewrite it as summary, and then fucked up my wrist and now typing even just this out is a pain in the ass. Should I wait until I'm satisfied with this to post it? Probably. But I've got a deadline I told myself I'd to stick to, so here it is! 
> 
> Anyway, Dega's lawyer was into both Degas and you can't change my mind.


	20. Vingt

Louis wakes in a bad mood. He lets his ill temper carry him through a shower and a somewhat unnecessary shave and twenty minutes of waiting for Dubuque to knock on his door--he’d considered slipping out before the other man woke up, but decided another disappearing act wouldn’t do him any favors. And so he opens the door and allows Dubuque to stroll in and make himself comfortable on the sofa while he makes a show of lazily repacking his overnight bag. When he straightens, he finds Dubuque looking at his watch.

“You hungry?” Dubuque asks.

“Not yet. Actually, there’s one more thing I’d like to do before I leave Marseille. I need to see my lawyer.”

Dubuque’s face tumbles through a complicated wheel of emotions. The expressions are muted, but Louis is certain that he recognizes amusement and alarm amongst them and he feels an unpleasant twitch of confusion. It was supposed to be a simple excuse, but--

“There’s a phone right there.”

“No,” Louis argues. “He’s an old friend, I’d like to see him in person.”

“Why?”

“It’ll soften the blow when I fire him. He failed to get my appeal through, and I don’t need him anymore.”

Dubuque doesn’t react for a moment, and when he does it’s obvious that he’s struggling to keep his mouth shut.

“Oh,” he says lamely, “that’s true.”

Louis shouldn’t stare but he can’t tear his eyes away from Dubuque’s attempt at keeping a straight face. He looks like he’s trying not to crack a joke. Louis hesitates, assessing, and suddenly realizes why Dubuque might think Louis seeking Léon out to fire him would be funny.

_He already knows he’s dead._

Knowing better than to act on the impulse to interrogate his handler, Louis clears his throat and turns to the closet, pulling down his coat with an air of finality. “I won’t be more than an hour or two. I’ll be back with plenty of time for lunch, if you’d like to join me.”

He says it like it’s a peace offering, an apology for brushing off Dubuque’s offer for breakfast. He shrugs his coat on and tries not to grimace when he realizes that it’s still damp.

“Okay,” Dubuque agrees, watching with unhappy eyes as Louis gathers his room key and puts his shoes on.

“Think about what you’d like. I’m not in the mood for anything in particular, so it will be entirely up to you.”

“You might come to regret that! Don’t take you for a pub food type of guy.”

“Well.” Louis pauses on his way out of the door to smile back at the other man. “One can’t subsist entirely on caviar and Champagne.”

That earns him a begrudging laugh, and the echo of it haunts him down the hall.

✧ ✧ ✧

_He knows_

Louis shivers in the mid-morning air as he waits for the tram, feeling sick to his stomach.

_He knows about Léon. Which means that Castili knows._

Unease eats at him as he makes his way uptown and carefully doubles back and ducks through familiar stores to try to shake any potential unfriendly eyes. He keeps his head down as he makes his way toward his true destination, feeling flustered as he recalls his first conversation with Castili. What had Castili said that had made Louis certain he’d spoken with Léon? He can’t remember. Something about money, maybe, but the edges of the memory had been softened from alcohol and exhaustion and he certainly can’t piece it together days later.

 _Castili and Léon._ Thunder rumbles somewhere in the distance and Louis glances up, worried about being caught out in the rain again.

_Castili and a checkbook and a bank account with just shy of a million francs._

He turns the corner and ducks into a small building, then up a flight of stairs and past a series of rental offices. He enters a nondescript one on the far end of the floor and tries not to feel nervous about dropping in on an old friend uninvited.

The man in question is bent half over the reception desk and is laughing into the telephone, but he pauses and gapes at Louis as he enters and quietly closes the door behind him. His friend holds up a finger and then begins speaking quickly into the receiver. Louis tries to take comfort in the fact that Antoine seems glad to see him, and he examines the once-familiar office while he waits. It’s been a while since his last visit, probably nearly a year, and he feels a pinch of guilt. He’d gotten so wrapped up in his blossoming criminal career that he hadn’t made time for old friends.

His eyes rove along the wall beside the door and he smiles fondly at a short row of framed awards for journalistic excellence. The two that Louis had forged for fun are proudly on display right beside the legitimate one, and something warm spreads in his chest at the sight. How long ago had he made those? He remembers Antoine laughing uproariously when Louis had presented the first one, which had applauded his friend for _outstanding integrity_ \--it had been a joke, a reference to Antoine getting shitfaced at Louis’ wedding and getting caught fucking Clara’s very-much-engaged bridesmaid.

Louis had put more effort into the second, which he created as a thank-you and encouraged Antoine to use as a part of his resume after Antoine had let him stay at his apartment after a particularly bad fight with Clara.

His smile dims at that memory. His mind begins to circle back to her and Léon and Castili like water swirling down a drain, but he resists the pull of grief. Some thoughts are dangerous. Some thoughts have teeth and don’t let go, and Louis needs to focus on Papillon.

“Louis,” Antoine greets loudly, circling around the desk and pulling him into a back-thumping hug. Louis startles at the abrupt contact, heart pounding at the threat a thing like that had presented only days ago, but he recovers enough to pat tentatively on Antoine’s back before they part. “You’re back in Marseille!”

“I am, for the day.”

“I heard your appeal was successful, of course, but I hadn’t expected to see you so soon after the news broke.” His face suddenly drains of color. “I’m sorry, Louis. About Clara. I was shocked when I’d heard. How are you?”

Louis endures Antoine’s probing stare and does his best to look unaffected. “I’m as well as can be. But I’m sorry to say that this isn’t a social call. I need a favor.”

Antoine nods slowly and Louis can see the wheels turning in his head, likely wondering what a recently freed forger could possibly need from him. “You need a place to stay?” he guesses. “You’re always welcome, of course. I’m sure my girlfriend would love to meet you, she was very impressed when she found out that you were an old friend--”

“No,” Louis interrupts as graciously as he can, conscious of the clock ticking down against him. “I’m afraid it’s not half so pleasant as that.”

“Alright. You’ve got me worried now, but come on, let’s sit down.”

Louis allows himself to be led into the small corner office that has a less than impressive view of a brick wall. He doesn’t bother to take off his jacket, though he hopes it’s dry enough not to leave a mark as he collapses down into a chair across the desk from Antoine.

“What’s going on? If you need money--”

“No,” Louis interrupts again, feeling a sharp stab of shame that Antoine would assume that. “I’m afraid I’ve gotten myself mixed up in a strange situation.”

Antoine tilts his head invitingly, eyes suddenly too eager. Louis resists the urge to huff at the emergence of his friend’s ungodly nosiness.

“I’m heading back to Paris in a few hours, and I need the name of someone that I can trust.”

“A journalist?”

“Yes.”

Antoine purses his lips thoughtfully. “I might know someone in Paris. But, what, not looking to give your story to your childhood friend?”

“Childhood might be pushing it,” Louis laughs. “We were at least twenty-five when we met.”

Antoine shrugs and it’s clear that he won’t be distracted from his question.

“Believe me when I say that you don’t want the trouble that this would bring,” Louis admits.

“Try me.”

“It involves exposing a prolific Parisian crime lord. A man known for his long reach and a penchant for violence.” Louis tries not to feel too satisfied when Antoine begins to look uncertain. “I need assistance in investigating and putting the information out there, and it will be dangerous. The last thing I want is to involve you.”

“Alright. But what does any of that have to do with you? Since when are you in the business of bringing down criminals?”

“Don’t go fishing for information,” Louis warns, and Antoine has the grace to look embarrassed. “I’m sure you’ll read all about it one day.”

“At least give me something. You beat your conviction but you still spent months in that place. I haven’t seen anyone report on you being back in town--”

“And it needs to stay that way, at least for now.”

“Louis, look. If I’m going to give you something, I’m going to need something in return.”

“All I need is a name and a phone number.”

“All the same,” Antoine insists mulishly. “Nothing in this world is free. I would’ve thought prison would’ve taught you that.”

Louis tries to hide the disappointment from his face. _Now I recall why I stopped calling on you,_ he thinks, remembering the increasing frequency with which Antoine had wheedled for insight into the goings-on in Marseille’s underworld. He nearly stands up and walks away purely out of spite, but then he thinks of Papi.

“You remember Léon,” Louis begins, skin crawling at the prospect of what he’s about to do. “My attorney.”

“Yeah, sure. What about him?”

 _It’s okay,_ he thinks desperately, _he’s dead--he betrayed you first--it’s okay. It’s a means to an end._

“He killed himself.”

“Jesus.”

“It turns out that he was in love with Clara. She rejected him, of course.” It hurts more than he expects to spin that particular lie. “After her death, he took his own life.”

Antoine sits and stares and says nothing.

“You can’t use me as a source--I’m not even supposed to be here. But you can verify that Léon put a rope around his neck and jumped from his own stairwell after Clara passed.” He hesitates, adjusting his glasses in an involuntary display of discomfort. “Is that enough for you?”

“I’m sorry, Louis. What a thing to come home to.”

Louis shrugs and allows his eyes to slide past Antoine to study the old brickwork beyond the window. He tries to swallow down his resentment as Antoine starts fishing around in his desk. He finds a small notebook and flips through it, then scribbles a number on a scrap of paper

“Here,” the other man says, looking apologetic as he hands over the information. “The guy’s kind of an asshole but you can trust him. As far as I know he’s still in Paris.”

“Thank you.” Louis takes the slip of paper and stands, keeping his eyes straight ahead as Antoine leads him to the door.

“It’s good to see you again, Louis,” Antoine says, grabbing the door to hold it open as Louis tries to make a quick escape.

“You as well,” Louis replies flatly. He offers his hand and tries to look fond as Antoine grips it and squeezes.

He almost turns in time to avoid seeing a flash of pity cross his friend’s face. But not quite.

✧ ✧ ✧

Henri forces himself to rise before dawn.

He’d returned with Julot the night before and had immediately retreated to scrutinize his room. He couldn’t have said for sure, but he’d been nearly certain that something was off--a blanket rearranged, his spare shirt discarded in a differently shaped lump, the mattress pulled just slightly out from the wall.

Celier had been searching for the money.

Henri can’t bring himself to be angry about it. That would be like being angry at a cornered cat for scratching. It’s in Celier nature, it’s in his blood and his bad temperament, just as Dega had said.

And so Henri gets up before the sun and cautiously checks to make sure that Celier’s still asleep before making his way outside. He’s got to find a place to hide the money. Leaving it under his mattress as long as he had had been asking for trouble, and he can’t lose it--it’s his only way back to Europe, short of risking everything on a crime spree.

He paces behind the building and tries to find a safe place but comes up with nothing. It has to be somewhere dry, somewhere inconspicuous that he can get to quickly. He moves on to the hog barn and examines the exterior. He nearly balks when he smells the beasts inside, flesh crawling when he hears them wake and snuffle along the other side of the wall as though seeking him out, but he’s rewarded for his persistence when he realizes that he can reach the eaves from the far side of the building if he stands on the post that separates one of the pig pens from the yard.

He wraps the francs in Dega’s napkin and then carefully climbs the gate and stands, bracing himself against the wall as he stretches and just barely manages to tuck the little bundle into the lip of the lowest part of the eaves.

He leans back and stares, trying to access if it’ll stay dry and out of sight, and a voice from behind him nearly startles him out of his skin.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

It’s a near thing, but Henri manages to avoid falling off of the fence. He turns to find Julot staring up at him like he’s insane, an unlit cigarette hanging from his lip.

“Fuck,” Henri sighs with relief, sinking down to sit on the fence. “Julot.”

“Yeah, good morning to you, too,” Julot says, eyes straying up to the eaves. “What’s up? What the fuck are you doing?”

“Is Celier awake?”

“Nah.”

“Why are you up?”

“Had to take a piss. Saw you creeping around and thought I’d say hi.”

Henri glances around just in case Celier happened to have the same idea. “Listen. I think Celier stayed behind last night for a reason.”

“Being an asshole isn’t reason enough?”

“He was looking for Dega’s money.”

Julot’s eyes flick up to Henri’s hiding space, which he considers before nodding with approval. He climbs up beside Henri on the fence and lights his cigarette.

Henri says nothing for a long moment, watching the first tenuous glimpse of sunlight filter through the trees. It would almost be pretty, if Henri didn’t hate the jungle with every fibre of his being.

“Hey. About Marcel.”

Julot takes a long drag. “What about him?”

“I hear you two had a conversation about--”

“About who and what you like to stick your dick in? Yeah.”

“Thanks. For not telling him about Dega.”

Julot shrugs and exhales smoke through his nose. Henri’s stomach churns at the stench of it.

“Don’t think he would have taken it well, if he’d known.”

“Nah, probably not,” Julot agrees.

“Just glad he asked you and not Celier.”

“You think he’d have tried to fuck you over?”

Henri shrugs, reluctant to say _yes_ even though he knows it to be true. “Maybe. I’m not sure how Marcel would’ve handled it.”

“Not well,” Julot scoffs, shaking his head as he scratches at his stubble and takes another drag. “That prick.”

“Which one?” Henri jokes.

“Mostly our sailor friend. There’s something wrong with that guy.”

Henri refrains from pointing out that Julot’s own questionable background, dead guard included, and settles for staring down at his hands.

“We should take him out before he has the chance to fuck us over.”

Henri startles and whips his eyes up to Julot, who stares back with serious intent.

“No,” Henri says, voice hard. “No one else needs to die.”

Julot holds his gaze for another moment before sucking smoke down into his lungs, shrugging. “Your funeral,” he quips, then throws his still-lit cigarette in the mud and hops off of the fence. Henri watches him walk away. He nearly calls him back, not happy with leaving the conversation there, but Julot walks quickly despite his short legs and Henri doesn’t know what else to say.

He trusts Julot, almost as much as he trusts Dega, but he can admit to himself that Julot’s unpredictable, and that makes him dangerous. For a moment he entertains the fantasy of leaving the farm behind, of going off on his own and making his way to Europe a few weeks early, but he owes Julot a debt. He can’t abandon him, no matter how reckless he is, no matter that he’s eager for a fight, because Dega would be dead if not for Julot.

Henri pushes off of the fence and hesitates, staring up at the eaves. He pictures the money, a ship to Europe, a train ride to Lille, a hotel that he’d never been to but Dega had recommended; he pictures seeing Dega’s face again, he imagines shouting at him, shaking him for being so stupid as to insist on their separation. He pictures dragging Dega back up to the room to shout at him some more. Dega would be stubborn. He’d stand by his plan and he’d be proud of securing half a million francs for them to rebuild their lives with. But Dega would understand. Dega would yell back just because he could, but then he would tuck in close and kiss him and tell him to shut up, and Henri would. And then he would grab hold of Dega and not let go again.

✧ ✧ ✧

If Clara’s gravesite was humble, Léon’s is downright pitiful.

Louis stands above the little plaque in the ground and tries to understand.

Léon had been wealthy. Louis alone had paid him handsomely, and he’d had other clients.

He thinks of Castili sliding Louis’ own checkbook across a table.

He thinks of a letter.

He’d recognized Léon’s handwriting, had recognized his signature. It had been sloppy but he’d assumed it had been due to Léon’s grief. He stands above the newly sown grass of his lawyer’s grave and wonders if it was a different kind of distress that had made Léon’s hand quake. He pictures any one of Castili’s bruisers standing with one hand on Léon’s shoulder and the other on a pistol and closes his eyes.

Had Léon signed away his fortune to Castili as well? Had he used the last of his francs to put Clara in the best cemetery he could afford?

Louis takes an unsteady breath in and opens his eyes to study the bleak horizon of the cemetery.

Had Léon loved Clara, or had that been a ruse orchestrated by Castili to cut the strings between Louis and his connections in France?

The wind sweeps up under his coat and makes his teeth rattle as he begins a slow walk through the shoddy grounds and back to the street.

Castili has information on him. Information that he’d obtained from Léon, no doubt. Information on his accounts, and likely information on his vices, on his fears. Castili had gotten the rest from his guards--that’s how he knew about El Caimán, and Papi, and God knows what else.

It’s possible that he’s being paranoid. Maybe Léon had killed himself, having been stricken by guilt. But Louis remembers the warmth of his hand in his leg, remembers the earnest concern in his face on that walk down to the ship, remembers years of friendship.

 _He wouldn’t have given up,_ Louis decides. _Not before putting my appeal through. Especially after Clara._

He stops in a café to warm up, though he hardly tastes the overpriced coffee as he sits at the window and watches the first lick of rain bead up on the glass.

No, Léon wouldn’t have abandoned Louis to that hell. That conviction warms him for a moment, but then he thinks of how afraid Léon must have been when Castili’s men had come for him. Had he already been dead when they’d put the rope around his neck and cast him over the railing? If not, had his neck broken or had he strangled on the noose?

He shudders and takes a gulp of coffee and tries to think through Castili’s plan.

He’d been keeping tabs on Papillon, had found out about Louis from his spies at the prison, had decided he wanted Louis under his thumb. He’d assigned Cormier to recruit him, who had in turn recruited Guittou to do so when he’d landed himself in a solitary cell. And then? Had Castili decided Louis would be a flight risk once he returned? Had he decided to sever Louis’ few earthly connections in Marseille to eliminate the possibility?

He’d told Louis that he had done his research. What did that entail, exactly, and what favors had Castili called in in order to arrange Louis’ appeal?

And to what end?

Louis circles back to the question that’s haunted him from the first moment Guittou had taken him before Cormier. _Why?_ For the first time he understands that he’s been overthinking the dilemma.

Money.

It all comes back to money with Castili. He had known the amount that Louis had in his bank account, had known he’d hidden some away, had known that Louis could make him more. It isn’t some grand conspiracy to go after Papillon, it’s simple human greed.

Louis stares down into his half-empty cup and tries to ignore the way his skin prickles with chill despite the stuffiness of the café.

He’d likely taken everything Léon had as well, and then had killed him once he wasn’t of any use.

 _And what about Clara?_ he wonders, and he nearly bites through his lip to silence the thought.

He abandons the dregs of his coffee and takes a tram back to the hotel.

✧ ✧ ✧

Two hours later, Louis finds himself sitting opposite of Dubuque and watching the French countryside blur past. Dubuque is angry, and rightly so--Louis had gone back on his word to have lunch together, and then had blown off an attempt at a lecture on tardiness. He had all but ignored the man since returning from his excursion; and Louis had felt justified in his rudeness but thirty minutes into the train ride back to Paris he reconsiders.

He needs Dubuque on his side, or, at the least, he doesn’t need to give Dubuque a reason to hate him. He thinks it over, rehearses it twice in his head, and then inhales loudly to signal that he wants to talk. Dubuque looks at him warily.

“I’m sorry,” Louis begins, “for this morning.”

Dubuque’s frown doesn’t relent.

“I received some bad news about an old friend.”

Dubuque’s eyes flicker momentarily to the window as though startled or uneasy, but Louis draws his gaze back by leaning forward and infusing warmth into his voice.

“But that’s no excuse to have kept you waiting.”

“Alright, Mr. Dega.”

“And about yesterday…” He waits until curiosity keeps Dubuque’s eyes steady. “I’m sorry for snapping at you.”

The other man’s eyes narrow at the reminder. “Okay.”

“Really, I don’t know what came over me. It wasn’t your fault I wasn’t paying enough attention.” Louis offers him a self-deprecating little laugh. “I suppose that I was just happy to be home. And once I’d realized I’d strayed away…”

Dubuque’s head tilts a fraction at Louis’ theatrical hesitation. “What?” he prompts after a moment, and Louis sighs as if given permission to unburden himself of a secret.

“I suppose that I was afraid.”

“Afraid?” Dubuque barks incredulously. “Of what?”

“Of what Castili would have done if I’d lost that money.”

“He wouldn’t have been happy, but you’d have worked it off.”

Louis hesitation is genuine this time. “He wouldn’t have--?”

“What? Killed you?” Dubuque stares at him like he’s lost his mind. “He’d have the guy that took the money hunted down and killed, probably, but not you.” Dubuque abruptly looks relieved, like he’s figured Louis out. “You got the wrong idea about Castili. You don’t have anything to be afraid of as long as you don’t steal from him.”

Louis nods, but he isn’t convinced until he’s run it all through his mind several times over. He pretends to read the ridiculous novel he’d picked up at the bookstore and understands that Dubuque had been correct.

He’s misjudged Castili as much as Castili has misjudged him.

 _Castili thinks I’m like him,_ Louis thinks, heart pounding angrily at the realization. _The money. That’s all that matters to him. He thinks that’s all that matters to me._

Castili likely can’t fathom that Louis’ motivation is anything more than greed. He must think that Louis intends to claw his way back into his old life, and then beyond. Perhaps to become a kingpin, just like Castili.

_He sees himself in me. And he thinks that I see my future in him._

Louis pictures it for a moment. Being mentored under Castili’s considerable experience, being allowed to flourish beyond the role of a counterfeiter, earning admiration and respect for his connections every bit as much as his skill. Being a part of an silent empire that keeps the urchins and tearaways in line.

It’s not too far from the future that Louis had envisioned before his arrest, which will make it easier to play into now that Louis understands.

 _Castili’s not afraid that I’ll betray him._ Louis leans his head back against the cushioned seat. _Especially not now that he’s made his threats._

It’s nearly amusing to think that Louis had been so worried about being tripped up about Papi that he’d nearly missed the obvious. The carrot and the stick. Money, if he obeys--a pair of broken hands and a locked room in the whorehouse, if not. Because Castili knows about El Caimán, and he assumes the threat of being turned out is powerful enough to keep Louis in line if the promise of francs isn’t incentive enough. He understands that Castili probably wouldn’t follow through, though--it would be easier to just have Louis killed, and anything less than that was likely a bluff.

 _He can’t comprehend that Papi still has a part to play in any of this,_ Louis thinks.

And how the old man would laugh, if only he knew that Louis was risking his life for the sake of his ex-safecracker.

✧ ✧ ✧

A cyclone strikes off the coast, or so Marcel tells them as the day prematurely darkens and the rain comes howling in. He brandishes a nearly-full bottle of rum and receives appropriate murmurs of appreciation as he warns them against leaving the worker’s building until the storm passes.

“You are from France,” Marcel declares as he settles a hat firmly on his head and makes for the door, “you do not know tropical storms. This will be worse than you anticipate!”

Julot and Celier immediately begin passing the rum back and forth. Henri watches and assesses. Celier seems calm as he drinks. It’s been a week and a half since Henri hid the money, and Celier has either given up or is now playing a different game. Henri’s wary of that, just as he’s wary of the way that Celier and Julot seem to have found common ground over the last few days. Henri wants to ask Julot about it but Celier is suddenly stuck to them and he can’t get Julot alone. Where Celier had crept off to plot and sulk before, now he’s always at hand, eyes pleasantly neutral and always, always tracking him.

Henri doesn’t argue when Julot hands him the bottle, even though he knows that his tolerance shot after months of waiting in a jail cell for his trial followed by several more months of life at the prison. But the money is hidden and Celier’s in a good mood, and so he drinks.

He’s halfway to drunk in no time at all. Celier's already there and Julot's on Celier’s heels, happy to continue their effort to polish off the bottle after Henri surrenders with the declaration that he’s unwilling to face a hangover in the morning.

He sits half propped up against the wall on Julot's mattress and revels in his state of near-inebriation while the other two talk and laugh and trade increasingly ridiculous stories. Henri tunes them out, but something must catch between his ears because a strange feeling of unease settles over him as he listens to Celier brag about their escape from the prison.

It isn't that he takes more credit than he's owed, it isn't even that he pointedly excludes Dega's involvement, it's the way he says: _if not for me, Papi never would have even tried._

Julot picks up on that, too. "What?" he asks, lowering the bottle from his mouth.

Celier nods, heavy-eyed and smiling. "They needed a push."

"What?" Julot asks again with a little laugh. “What kind of push?"

"A little fire, to motivate Papi to get his shit together."

Henri stares at the side of Celier's head but doesn't miss the bewildered look Julot sends his way.

"Yeah? What, like a pep talk?"

Celier takes a swig from the near empty bottle. "A pep talk, but not with Papi." He passes the rum back, and Julot takes it but doesn't drink. "Thought maybe he needed to remember what was at stake."

"What the fuck does that mean?" Henri demands from the other side of the room.

Celier turns slowly, expression placid. "What I said. You needed a push."

Henri's sober enough to search his memories, but comes up empty on what Celier possibly could have done to hurry along the escape. He waves a hand dismissively and leans back against the wall. "You're full of shit."

"I'm not." Celier turns back to Julot but speaks loudly enough that Henri couldn't miss the words if he tried. "Had a little talk with some of the others. Suggested that maybe Papi was getting tired of his toy."

It takes Henri longer than it should. Blood rushes into his face once he understands that by _toy_ Celier means _Dega_.

Julot looks between them with a visible effort to sober enough to follow the conversation. "What did you do?"

Celier shrugs. "Papi needed to be reminded that there was more to life than playing house with Dega. I just gave them a nudge.”

Henri abruptly remembers the day Dega had introduced him to the storage building. He’d been waiting for Dega to get back from the infirmary, he’d talking to their turnkey and had turned his head just in time to see Dega pulled from the path.

"You nearly got him killed," Henri snarls, lurching to his feet. His face feels hot and his hands begin to tremble at the memory of Dega being pinned against a wall. "If I hadn't seen--"

"Seen what?" Julot demands.

"Two guys cornered Dega." He steps forward and watches as Celier's face twists with contempt at his posturing. "Had to beat the shit out of them. That was you? You told them to do that?"

"I didn't tell them to do anything."

"Just suggested it," Julot parrots back.

Henri isn't sure if Julot is amused or pissed off, but Henri is very clear about his own feelings. "You could have gotten him killed."

A one-shouldered shrug sets Henri's blood racing and his heart pounds an ugly drumbeat in his ears.

"You wanted them to kill him."

Celier's drunk enough to be honest, cocky enough to be unconcerned. "It would've solved a few problems--"

Henri lunges and shoves him hard enough that Celier slams against the sink and staggers to stay on his feet. He hears Julot laugh--or shout--but he focuses on avoiding a sloppy right-hook and sending back an answering one that connects with Celier's temple. He's vaguely surprised when Celier doesn't go down, and he's caught off guard when Celier launches at him and drags him to the ground. His head hits the floor with enough force to dim his vision for a moment, but not hard enough to blanket out the feeling of huge hands wrapping around his throat.

Henri grips and twists and bucks, throwing Celier off and sending his elbow into Celier's chest. There's a whoosh and a beat in which Henri thinks it's over, but Celier's fist connects with his ribs and he stutters out a breath of surprise.

Celier pushes himself back to his feet and Henri mimics the motion, not wanting to be on the receiving end of another kick in the head. He's winded but he's younger and he's more sober and it only takes a few more moments of grappling and another punch to send Celier reeling away clutching his nose.

Henri sees blood seep up between Celier's fingers and thinks, _that's it, that’s enough_. Then there's a blur of motion and it takes him two seconds too long to understand. There's no time to do anything but watch as Julot rears his arm back and swings the rum bottle. It cracks against the back of Celier's head and there's a sickening moment in which Henri's not sure if he heard the bottle break or if that had been the sound of Celier's skull fracturing.

Celier staggers, hands coming away from his gushing nose slick and red. He makes as though to touch the back of his head but his arms twitch halfway there and he doesn’t quite make it.

 _No,_ Henri thinks but can't say, tongue twisted in horror as Celier takes a dazed step forward and Julot hits him again.

The bottle doesn't break, not even when Julot drops it to the floor. Celier goes down on one knee, then makes a soft, wet noise in the back of his throat and rises again. Henri watches, feeling drunker than he is, as Celier stammers out something incoherent and lurches toward the door.

Julot sneers in words that Henri can't decipher as the door yields to Celier's blundering and the storm is invited past the threshold, whipping in rain and the smell of electricity. For a moment Celier's a simple silhouette against the dark, and Henri can barely see as the other man falls, crawls forward three paces, and then goes ominously still.

“What did you do?” Henri whispers, nauseous.

There's a wail that could be Celier or the wind. He takes a hesitant step forward but Julot's hand clasps him on the shoulder and stops him dead.

"He had it coming," Julot says with remarkable calm.

Henri turns to him. Julot stares back, looking far more sober than he should, and Henri swallows down a rush of bile. He shrugs Julot's hand off and staggers out to where Celier has collapsed.

It's dark, too dark to see anything but the suggestion of shapes, but Henri's certain his hand comes away red when he touches the back of Celier's head. _Just rainwater,_ he tells himself in an ludicrous moment of denial, but he'd felt it--had felt something give when he'd pushed down on Celier’s skull, and he knows.

He fumbles to check Celier's pulse, but he's shaking so badly he can't be certain of anything.

Another denial.

He hefts Celier onto his side and sticks his hand in front of Celier's face, praying for a huff of breath, but he feels only rain.

"Papi," Julot says from somewhere behind him, struggling to be heard over the wind. "He's dead."

Henri lets go. Celier flops facedown back into the mud. He knows Julot isn't wrong, he's known it since he saw Celier fall, but he can't make sense of it.

"Papi." Julot's hand finds his shoulder again and tugs.

"Why?" he rasps without turning. "Why did you do that?"

"He was going to kill you."

Henri can't be sure that Julot doesn't believe that, but it rings false.

"No," he argues, but then his tongue goes rebelliously limp.

Julot tugs harder and Henri yields, allowing himself to be led back inside, where he slams the door shut and collapses against it. Julot picks up the bottle and puts it in the sink when he realizes it’s smeared vermilion with blood.

"Strong glass," he jokes.

Henri looks up to stare in blank disapproval.

"It's alright, Papi. He had it coming and you know it." A terrible mirth brightens his face. "Think the pigs are hungry?"

Henri buries his face in his hands and laughs humorlessly, heaving in desperate, dry sobs.

✧ ✧ ✧

Louis is ill.

He’d been fighting off a cold since his return from Marseille but he’d been unable to shake it. He’d tried to hide the symptoms as he began forging and socializing with Castili’s circle, but it had built into a sickness that doubled his vision and split his aching head and Castili had eventually taken notice. He’d been sent home from the club the night before with instructions to sleep in and get rid of his fever, but he forces himself to rise shortly after dawn.

He bathes and dresses and can’t stop adjusting his new eyeglasses as he prepares a light breakfast for himself. The spectacles are larger, with a thicker black frame, and are more angular than his perfectly round ones had been. Louis had liked his glasses. He’d had them for years, and they’d survived French Guiana with him, but Castili had presented the new ones as a gift and Louis had known better than to reject a thing like that.

But still he fidgets with them, annoyed that he can’t get them to rest perfectly right on the bridge of his nose. He finishes getting ready but then pauses to wander back into the bathroom to examine himself in the mirror. Castili’s spectacles certainly are more modern-looking, but the heavy black lines somehow make his eyes look bigger, and that’s generally something Louis tries to avoid. He’s been mocked enough for them to last a lifetime.

“Nothing for it,” he sighs, and grimaces when even that irritates his throat.

He leaves his apartment and makes his way to the catacombs, alternating between shivering and sweating as his fever climbs. Dubuque had commented that it might snow soon, and Louis had doubted it the day before but reconsiders his skepticism as he leaves the underground and frowns up at the sky as he walks. He takes a wrong turn that costs him fifteen minutes but he makes it to his destination before mid-morning.

The catacombs. He’s never been, he’s never had any interest in being underground for more than a quick train ride, and he finds himself apprehensive as he takes in a growing crowd of tourists and the hard-eyed locals drifting along the fringes.

He eyes two younger men dressed in sloppy shades of black smoking on the street corner. It’s presumptuous, but they look the type to crawl through rat-infested tunnels for fun. He approaches slowly but with obvious intent, and they turn and watch him curiously.

“Le Ver,” he begins, voice dipped into a polite cadence. “I’m looking for someone nicknamed Le Ver. I’m told that he frequents the catacombs. Do you know him?”

The fair-haired man shakes his head, but his bearded friend eyes Louis with a quiet consideration.

“I’m here to pass along a message from a friend of his. Julot. If you know where Le Ver is--” He pauses as the two abruptly lean in close to whisper to one another. The fair-headed man shoots Louis a quick look and then lowers his eyes in a path from Louis’ coat to his wrist to his shoes.

“Yes,” the bearded one says suddenly. “Yes, we know Le Ver.”

Louis tries not to sag with relief. His body has begun to ache from the fever and he’s not sure how much longer he can stand the biting wind.

“Come, come,” the man says, waving a hand lazily.

Louis hesitates, recognizing the strangeness of their behavior but feeling too desperate to refuse. If he can find a way to make contact with Papillon, he has to try. He ignores the prickle of unease that rises gooseflesh along his arms and trails after the men. They lead him around what they disdainfully dismiss as _the tourist entrance_ and glance back at him with quick, calculating eyes as they wander further down the block, turning a corner and ducking past a small metal fence and a line of shrubs to bring him before what’s little more than a hole in the side of a wall.

Louis observes the hole and the scream of crude graffiti and swallows down a protest.

“This is our way in,” the bearded man shares, smiling with too many teeth. “Locals only. You’re local, aren’t you?”

“I’m from Marseille,” Louis says with the intent to make it a joke, but it comes out sounding cold and clipped.

“Close enough,” one says as the other sweeps his arm toward the hole in an obvious gesture of _you first_.

Louis abruptly remembers the way their eyes had tracked his tailored suit and his expensive watch. He wonders about the likelihood that these roughnecks would know Le Ver by name, would know where he is in the vast, spidering maze of tunnels at any given moment.

An instinct rears up in him and locks his muscles up tight.

“Come on,” the man beckons, “we will show you to your Le Ver.”

Louis reminds himself why he’s there. He tells himself not to be a coward and tries to take a step forward, but his body disobeys him. The wrongness of it sings in his blood and he finds himself shaking his head. The fair-haired one frowns and then laughs in a stilted, forced way that tells Louis that he’s nervous, and Louis is abruptly reminded of how Guittou had looked moments before he’d stabbed Louis in the gut.

“What? You scared?”

 _Yes,_ Louis thinks but doesn’t say. He hadn’t survived everything that he had just to be mugged and left to die in the catacombs. It takes an effort, but he straightens his back and lifts his chin.

“I’m not about to go crawling through the dirt,” he declares with more confidence than he feels.

The men look at one another and then back at him, one with anxiety and the other with annoyance.

“Le Ver? You want to see him? He’s through here.”

“Wonderful. Bring him out to me.”

Louis watches as anger blooms hot in the bearded man’s eyes.

“You want the worm?” his friend demands, grabbing himself by the crotch and sneering. “I’ve got your worm.”

Louis laughs. He shouldn’t, not when he’s allowed himself to be lured away from witnesses, but it’s genuinely _funny_ and he’s helpless against the hoarse rasp that bubbles up out of him. The men hesitate, glancing at one another as Louis’ laugh peters out into a pained cough. The one with the beard steps forward with menace in his eyes and his fists balled. Louis watches him work up the nerve to throw a punch and he tilts his head with appraisal, rubbing at his aching throat.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he warns. “You’ll break your thumb.”

“What?”

“You’ll break your thumb if you tuck it into your fist like that.”

The stranger glances down at his hand in bewilderment. He slowly repositions his thumb, tucking it along the side of his hand instead. In a moment of absurdity he looks up as though seeking approval and Louis nods with exaggerated satisfaction.

“That’s better.”

The man falters, seemingly unnerved by Louis’ refusal to be intimidated, but Louis senses that the moment for violence hasn’t quite passed and decides to keep them off-kilter.

“If you see Le Ver, let him know that a friend of Julot’s is looking for him.” Louis adjusts his glasses with easy nonchalance. “I don’t have time to wait today. But I’ll be back.”

He won’t return, he’s not that stupid, but as expected they read an opportunity in the prospect of having time to prepare a better mugging and nod after a few moments of flabbergasted consideration. Louis turns on his heel and backtracks to the main street, rejoining the crowd. His would-be robbers don’t follow and he gets his erratic heartbeat under control by the time he reaches the subway, deflating as the little pulse of adrenaline from the near-miss fades. He berates himself for his carelessness and tells himself that Le Ver wouldn’t have been able to get him in contact with Julot either way.

The trip back to his apartment is an unhappy blur of ache and heat. 

Dubuque bursts in the moment Louis collapses down onto his bed and curls up under the comforter. Groaning, Louis props himself up on his elbow as Dubuque chirps a greeting and deposits a paper bag on the table.

“You look terrible,” Dubuque proclaims, ambling over to lean in the doorway of his bedroom. It’s invasive but Louis can’t bring himself to care--he’s just glad that he’d had the presence of mind to take his coat and shoes off before dumping himself into bed. It would be difficult to hide the fact he’d just gotten home, otherwise.

“Thank you, Will,” he says with just the right edge of exasperation to make the other man laugh.

“I brought you lunch.”

“You’re checking up on me,” Louis thinks. He only realizes he’d mumbled it out loud when Dubuque nods.

“That’s right, just checking in. Castili said you weren’t feeling well.”

Louis can’t keep his head up anymore. He lays back against the pillow and nearly takes his glasses off before reminding himself that he doesn’t trust Dubuque that much.

“Kind of Castili to care.”

“He was hoping you’d be better by tonight. There’s someone he wants you to meet.”

Louis’ head tingles with unease. “Oh?”

“I’ll tell him you’re still sick as a dog--”

“Who am I supposed to meet?”

“Don’t worry about it, Castili won’t be mad.”

Louis closes his eyes and wonders if Dubuque is that stupid or if he’s just that good at deflection.

“I’ll be fine. I just need a bit more rest.”

Dubuque hums doubtfully.

“Tell him I’ll be by for dinner.”

“If you’re sure--”

“I am,” Louis insists, then raises himself up as best he can as Dubuque turns to leave. “Will?”

“Yeah?”

“Who is it that I’m supposed to meet?”

Dubuque returns to his doorway to grin at him. “Not a fan of surprises?”

“Will--”

“We have an inspector general set to retire for our lovely Prefecture of Paris. You’re about to be introduced to the top candidate to take his place.”

“A friend of Castili’s,” Louis guesses aloud, earning a conspiratorial wink.

“Something like that.”

“And Castili wants him to meet me?”

“That’s right. What’s wrong, feeling shy?”

Louis groans and reaches for the spare pillow. Dubuque barks out a laugh as it’s thrown at him, ducking out of the doorway and announcing that he’ll be back to pick Louis up at seven o’clock sharp. Louis lies on his back and frowns up at ceiling as he hears Dubuque let himself out, wondering if maybe he should take the night off after all--he’s not sure he’s willing to risk botching an introduction with a high-ranking and very much corrupt police inspector. 

But he tells himself that he’s not _that_ ill, and he knows that avoiding the meeting would only be delaying the inevitable. He can handle a bit more play acting, he just needs some sleep. 

He takes off his glasses and closes his eyes and wills his headache to have mercy on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends, we made it through chapter twenty.
> 
> This is about a week late but I sprained my wrist in the most spectacularly pathetic way possible and I had to take a step back from typing. I filled a spare notebook with shit in the meantime, but it's going to take a minute to get caught up! 
> 
> If you wondered, _'is this story going to get finished?'_ the short answer is _'yes'_ and the long answer is _'yes but idk if it'll take a month or a year'_. I feel very motivated to write but not so much to proofread and actually post it. But it's been four months and my love for these two idiots hasn't waned so I don't doubt that it'll get finished!


End file.
